


Dust of Snow

by mainecoon76



Series: Promises to Keep [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Action/Adventure, Angst, BoFA, Established Relationship, Family, For Want of a Nail, Friendship/Love, Gen, Gold Sickness, M/M, Supernatural Elements, anger issues, hints of Kili/Tauriel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-02-03 12:28:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1744631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mainecoon76/pseuds/mainecoon76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost eighty years ago Dwalin was warned about the cruel fate that awaits those he loves. Now the quest for Erebor is reaching its end and he can sense that time is running out, but he is determined to fight for their lives with every ounce of his strength.</p>
<p>Never did he expect that this desperate struggle might threaten his own bonds of loyalty and love.</p>
<p> <i>Third and last part of  "Promises to Keep". Knowledge of the previous parts is not strictly necessary; the most important points will become clear in due time. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically meant to be a "For Want of a Nail"-AU, in which the change of one single detail triggers a different chain of events. The critical detail is one vague but highly unpleasant piece of information Dwalin received around eighty years prior to the quest. He chose not to share with anyone, which means that there haven't been any obvious changes yet, except in Dwalin's mind.
> 
> I am using a mix of book and movie canon and choose to read Thorin/Dwalin between the lines, so that's not related to the plot changes.
> 
> Rated M for semi-explicit consensual sex and violence, not necessarily in that order. 
> 
> Huge thanks once again to mrs_sweetpeach, aka Haven, who is a wonderful beta and never ceases to amaze me! The title is taken from Robert Frost's poem "Dust of Snow", which seems fitting for several reasons. No money is made from this work.
> 
> And now, on to the story.

_The way a crow_  
 _Shook down on me_  
 _The dust of snow_  
 _From a hemlock tree_

_Has given my heart_  
 _A change of mood_  
 _And saved some part_  
 _Of a day I had rued._

_(Robert Frost)_

 

Winter comes early this year.

The first snow begins to fall while they are in Laketown. It lies in muddy patches on the road as they make their way towards the mountain, not pure but grey and wet and dirty, and the river is covered in thin plates of ice. Dwalin wonders if he should take it as a sign, the early frost that means the death of living things that are not yet prepared for the merciless cold. Later he remembers that there were other ominous signs that should not have passed his notice. Not once does Thorin's hand reach out for his own during their uneasy stay in this morass of human fickleness and deceit. Not once does his friend voice the dark thoughts that are mirrored in his eyes as he stares into the distance, looking without seeing towards the Lonely Mountain. 

Dwalin is afraid. He has reason to be afraid, and it is not one he can bring himself to share with any of the Company. Unwanted thoughts keep squirming into his mind, cut his temper short and make him lie awake at night, unable to get any rest.

Yet he fails to see the most dangerous threat until it is upon them.

 

"I do not see the significance." Bilbo Baggins draws himself up to his inconsiderable height and glares daggers at each of them in turn. "A gem. You want to find a pretty gem. Smaug is wrecking havoc in Laketown, all those people there, you know they took us in and they... they're innocent and he'll kill them, and all you want is this cursed gem?"

"Yes, and as fast as possible, if you please." Thorin does not bother to conceal his impatience. "Before the worm returns. Now get going, we've no time for idle chatter!" He turns around and glowers at his companions, who have the grace to look vaguely nervous. "Now!" he barks, and a flurry of activity results when every dwarf of the company begins to balance on unsteady piles of gold and jewels, ploughing through them as if they were mere earth to find the one artefact that ensures the success of their quest.

Every dwarf except Dwalin, who is held back rather than urged on by the sharp tone of his friend's voice. His sense for danger has been overstrained for the entire course of their journey and his whole being is in a perpetual state of alarm, which means that he is not about to ignore any critical situation, however harmless it may seem. 

The burglar is not participating, either. Bilbo watches the commotion with thin lips and a frown on his usually cheerful face.

Then Thorin turns towards them, and his eyes narrow. "You!" he snarls. "Both of you. Get your lazy hides down there, and I'm not saying it again!"

There is a sharp intake of breath from Bilbo, and suddenly Dwalin worries for his safety almost as much as for Thorin's. He steps behind the hobbit and shoves him towards the stairs that lead right into the piled gold. Bilbo whips around to give him an angry glare, but when their eyes meet, his expression softens and indignation is replaced by a grim understanding.

Dwalin looks away first. He will not admit it, not to Mr Baggins nor anyone else, but Thorin has never spoken to him like this. Not once in nearly two hundred years.

He digs his nails into his palms and steps past Bilbo onto the mountain of treasure.

 

To find one single gemstone in a mountain full of treasure might be considered a useless endeavor.

"We'll sure need the blessing of Mahal, we do," Bofur announces with a sigh. The miner wipes his sweaty forehead with a dirty sleeve and smears a trail of grime across his face before he turns around and flashes a grin at Balin. "Well. About time, eh?"

Balin nods and lets his gaze roam across the alcove through which they have been digging for the past three hours. There is a haunted look in his brother's eyes, Dwalin notes. Balin's hands are running restlessly through a pile of coins, as if the touch of gold is soothing him, and Dwalin fights the urge to grab them and hold them still.

"Sure, laddie," his brother replies with a forced smile. "We're here, against all odds. The Maker would have vicious sense of humor, to lead us so far only to abandon us in this hour of need."

"Well, he does, sometimes." Bofur shrugs and digs his boot into a heap of gems. It collapses, but no white glow appears from the depths. "No use fretting about it, I say. What's to happen will happen, and we can't change fate, can we? But perhaps he's kind to us, after all."

Dwalin's fingers grip the rough stone wall to his right until his nails are splintering. Images are flashing through his mind, well-known but still terrifying, and for a moment all he sees is blood.

_We can't change fate, can we_?

Perhaps he cannot. Perhaps Víli's warning was nothing more than the twisted joke of some malevolent god. The air around him seems to thicken, and it is getting difficult to breathe.

"Kind?" he grouses bitterly. "No-one's kind to us, mate. If we don't bend fate to our will, it'll crush us. That's vicious humour for you."

Balin's head snaps up, and Dwalin catches the alarm in his brother's gaze just before a heavy hand lands on his shoulder.

"Just what I was going to say," Thorin growls as he steps past him. "And I'll be damned if I don't bend it to my will this time. So stop wasting time and find the stone, or everything will be in vain!"

Thorin's eyes are pale in the dim light, and small beads of sweat are shining on his brow. His gaze is roaming across the treasure as if he could find the King's Jewel by the force of his will alone. He does not meet Dwalin's eyes, as he rarely does ever since they have arrived at the Mountain. They have known each other so long and so intimately that they can understand each other without words, but now Thorin seems to look right through him, and for the first time ever Dwalin feels like his best friend is beyond his reach, separated by an invisible wall.

It makes him want to scream in frustration.

Balin and Bofur exchange a glance and return to their labour, and Thorin turns on his heels and walks away to admonish the rest of the Company. Dwalin watches his back until he is out of sight. Then he grips a large gem that is lying at his feet, a sapphire, blue as Thorin's eyes and big as his own fist and polished into a thousand sparkling facets, and smashes it against the wall again and again until his fist is bleeding. Shards of the splintered stone are digging into his hand and Balin is clinging to his arms, holding him back and speaking frantically, though he cannot make out the words over the roaring of blood in his ears.

He falls back against the rock and gasps for breath. Slowly he is regaining control over himself and fights back the fury, the all-consuming rage that is always waiting to spring to life and overtake his senses ever since they entered the mountain. 

Balin said that a sickness lies upon the hoard.

He swallows and looks at the concerned faces of his friends, both of them still standing close enough to hold onto him, should the need arise. He shrugs them off and steps past them.

"I'm fine," he growls and resumes his search.

 

For days they are waiting. The constant threat is washing away the patience of even the most good-natured members of the company. Ever they are listening for far-off roars, for the scratching of large talons and the beating of leathery wings and the scent of fire that wafts through the vast, empty halls. Ever they are continuing their search that becomes more frantic with every hour, and there is no joke and no song to be heard in the short breaks they allow themselves for no other reason than to avoid falling over from exhaustion.

Thorin is never among those who rest.

Dwalin is holding himself together by will alone. His body, strong and reliable as it is, will do a while without rest or a decent meal; it is his mind that rebels, his nerves that have been strained far beyond the breaking point. For eighty years he has been on his guard, always waiting, always watching, always fearing that his next mistake will be the one that causes a tragedy. He knows that it is drawing near now, and most of the time it takes all the strength he has to keep himself from roaring his rage through the echoing halls of the Mountain, to smash his fists at the cold marble walls until the bones break just like a captured beast throws itself against the bars of its cage.

Balin never leaves his side. Of his ghastly premonitions Dwalin has never spoken, but Balin has known for decades that something is weighing on his brother's mind. He has offered his silent support ever since their first uncomfortable argument about the subject.

"We can still make it work," Balin tells him now as the two of them are sitting on a narrow pathway that leads through the treasury, and sharing dry piece of cram. "Maybe we have to re-think our searching strategy. So far we have covered the general area where the stone was last seen, but perhaps the dragon has taken it somewhere else. There may be an area within the hoard where he has piled his most valuable prizes."

Dwalin watches his brother in silence, and for the first time in his life he beholds a strange and highly unsettling sight.

Balin's hands are shaking.

"You think we'll fail," Dwalin announces. Subtlety has never been among his virtues. "You think we don't stand a chance."

"What? Oh, no." Balin sighs and shakes his head. "No, that's not it. We all knew it was a risky venture and it's not over yet. Never give up until you're beaten, laddie."

Dwalin doesn't return his brother's smile. Balin starts to fumble at the frays of his worn sleeves, and Dwalin wishes he would finally keep his hands still.

"How much do you remember, nadadith?" 

Dwalin looks up in surprise. His brother stares into the distance as though he is watching something that is invisible to Dwalin's eye. His hands are still moving restlessly.

"You were just a lad when it happened. Do you remember…?" He breaks off, and as abruptly as a heavy marble door falls shut and blends seamlessly into the surrounding rock, his expression becomes blank. "Never mind. Let us go, we don't have time." With that he rises and stuffs the last piece of cram into his pocket.

Dwalin stares at him for a moment before he complies. He wonders what kind of memory it is that makes his brother's hands shake, but he does not ask.

 

The dragon does not return to the mountain, but still there is fire in the night when a long row of lanterns and torches light the road that leads from the river towards Erebor. It is a vast armed host of lake-men that marches up to the Mountain and makes camp right at the foot of the front gate. They ignore Thorin's inquiry as to their purpose, and instead proceed to light fires and settle for the night. The sound of songs and laughter echoes through the valley, accompanied by the distinctive sound of elven harps.

"Why are they here?" Fíli grouses as the Company is watching the commotion from the battlements. "And why have they brought elves?"

"Why do you think?" Thorin snaps angrily. "They seek to take which is ours. Surely they were prepared to step over our dead bodies, but we will not make it so easy!" 

"But the dragon..." Fíli shakes his head in confusion. "Where's the dragon?" 

But there is no answer to that, and the dwarves return into the halls to find a bit of uneasy rest for the night. Dwalin lies awake and listens to the faint metallic sounds that carry over from the treasury.

Thorin is not resting by his side, and he tells himself that the cold that makes him shiver has nothing to do with fear.

 

The diplomatic interactions do not go well.

The men's bearing is insolent, their demands are ridiculous, and the fact that they are accompanied by the elven king who detained Thorin's company on their quest is an outrage. Thorin is seething with fury, and for once Dwalin knows exactly what is going on in his mind because he feels very much the same. There is no way they can give in to those terms, not if Thorin wishes to keep face and be respected as a ruler, although it is very clear that there is no respect to be lost right now because their adversaries have none for them. 

The Company members watch in helpless rage as Thorin ends the conversation with a well-aimed arrow in the messengers' shield, and they are officially under siege.

 

_"He who calls himself King Under The Mountain,"_ Kíli fumes. "How dare they? Were they lying to us all the time? They were _cheering_ to us, they promised to help!"

"They blame us for the destruction of their homes, and they feel entitled because they killed the dragon," Balin mutters with worry in his eyes. "This is very bad. We need an alliance, Erebor cannot stand alone..."

Thorin slams a fist upon the railing. "We'll see about that," he growls. "Balin, see if you can find a raven, I'm going to send a message to the Iron Hills. Now that we've taken back the mountain, Dáin will surely help us defend it from a handful of grave-robbers."

Balin nods, but before he turns away he exchanges a look with his brother, and Dwalin is reasonably sure about its meaning.

_Only if we have the Arkenstone._

Thorin's cousin is a decent sort and a good friend, but it is by no means certain that he will lead his soldiers into a war against the other free people of Middle Earth. Not unless Thorin wields the King's Jewel, the symbol of leadership and glory that will unite the seven armies of the dwarves against any foe.

If we find the Arkenstone, Dwalin knows with sudden clarity, there will be war.

Not a glorious battle, but death and destruction. They do not stand a chance against an army that, even should they receive aid from the Iron Hills, still outnumbers them, and he knows the outcome because he has _seen_ it. He still sees it in his dreams.

_Thorin, white and cold, bleeding out on a narrow cot. Balin's heart pierced by a black arrow. Dark blood soaking Fíli's blonde hair and pooling around Kíli's broken body._

Their father believed that Dwalin could save them, if only he knew.

It was not the dragon, he realizes with a sinking heart. It is this he has been waiting for, this battle that he must prevent at all costs, or his loved ones will die and his own life will fall to pieces.

"Don't do that," he hears himself say against all better judgment.

All eyes turn towards him. Thorin's frown deepens even further. "Do what?"

"Go to war." He is aware that his companions are gaping at him and Balin has stopped in his tracks to give him an incredulous look, but he ignores them and carries on regardless. "They're bastards, but Balin is right. We need them. We must not start a war."

Everyone around him has gone very quiet. Thorin stares at him as if he does not believe his own ears, and Dwalin feels the blood rise to his cheeks. He is a warrior, a proud dwarf of a clan that grovels to no one, and he is Thorin's most loyal follower. He is supposed to stand steadfast behind his king, as he always has as long as he can remember.

He should not seek peace with a bunch of robbers and blackmailers who deny Thorin his rightful title and the respect they owe him.

It is not his right to question his leader's political decisions in public.

Yet Thorin has always respected his advice, even relied on it more often than not. Surely he will consider his words at least.

Thorin remains silent for a long moment. Then he catches Dwalin's arm in a hard grip. "Come with me," he orders, and Dwalin grits his teeth and complies.

 

He follows Thorin's fast strides into a small chamber that was once a guard room, conveniently out of earshot but within easy reach from the treasury. Elaborate depictions of long-forgotten battles adorn the walls, jeweled mosaics that catch the light of the torches and reflect it in a thousand glittering sparkles.

As soon as the door has closed behind Dwalin his friend whirls around, and his eyes are blazing with fury.

"That was enough, Dwalin," he snarls. "Do it again and you'll regret it."

Dwalin controls the urge to throw a punch at Thorin's left cheekbone. It would give a very satisfying crunch, and he can just imagine the look of hurt that would appear on his friend's face, the surprise that would immobilize him long enough to receive a damaging blow in the stomach that would make him double over in pain...

He bites his lip and suppresses a shudder. It is all well and good to be angry at Thorin, but his own violent fantasies unsettle him. He does not wish to hurt Thorin. He wants to keep him safe and protect him from harm.

"I didn't mean to question your authority, my king," he says stiffly. "My apologies if my opinion was ill-received."

"It was indeed," Thorin growls, "and you would do well to remember your place." The tone of contempt in his voice is one he usually reserves for those he deems hardly worth talking to. He used to speak like this to the hobbit when they first met him, but he has not done so for a long time, and Dwalin, his best friend, shield-brother and bedmate for more than a century, feels the words twisting into his chest like a knife.

He would do better to hold his tongue, not to give up but as a strategic retreat. Too long he has closed the eyes against that which he cared not to see, but now he is beginning to understand that something is deeply wrong with his friend. Thorin is proud but not foolish, tough but not cruel, and he never treated Dwalin as anything but his equal. 

The pain of it is too much to bear. Stronger than before he feels the pull of a darker power seep through his weakened defenses, poisoning his thoughts and making them black with hatred. With a snarl he turns upon his friend, grips his tunic and slams him into the wall. 

"You damned fool!" he thunders. "You know nothing! You'll _die_ , that's what will happen! You'll be dead and Fíli and Kíli and Balin too, and I'll be left to pick up the pieces! And I'll tell you what I think of that, no matter if you want it or not!"

Thorin has gone very still in his grip and the flare of rage passes as quickly as it ignited. For a moment they stare at each other, then Thorin raises an eyebrow at the hand that is still clutching his shirt, and Dwalin lets him go like a piece of smoldering iron.

"You are raising your hand against your king."

Dwalin steps back and attempts to control the emotions that are raging inside him. A long moment passes before he trusts that his voice will remain steady.

"Just my king it is, now?" he manages at last.

There is no reply.

He looks at Thorin's impassive face and swallows his despair. They have been friends ever since they were little dwarflings. For nearly two hundred years they have shared sorrow and joy, they have worked together, lived together, fought and suffered and slept together. They have shared a home, a bed and a family, and they knew each other as they know themselves. Now Dwalin does not recognize his friend.

He bows his head, as custom demands. "Forgive me, my lord," he requests. "It shall not happen again."

"Make sure it doesn't." 

Thorin turns and leaves the room without sparing him another glance. Dwalin leans against the wall and bites his lip until he tastes blood.

"We must not go to war," he whispers in despair. "This isn't right, you must come back to me, âzyungâl. Please come back."

But there is no answer in the silence around him.

 

"Excuse me."

Dwalin turns around to see Bilbo Baggins hovering in the doorway. The burglar looks as tense as a rabbit prepared to take flight at the smallest notice, but the look on his round little face is determined.

"I could not help but overhear… I'm sorry. You were not exactly subtle."

"Aye." Dwalin glowers at the hobbit. He does not welcome the intrusion. "So what was it you wanted?"

"You're…" Bilbo breaks off and casts a quick glance over his shoulder before he steps inside and closes the door behind himself. "A word, Master Dwarf. If you don't mind. As private as possible, if that's not too much to ask." 

He looks pale and nervous and would clearly prefer to be anywhere else than in present company, but his spine is straight and he does not cower from Dwalin's angry glare. There is more to their burglar than meets the eye, Dwalin thinks once again with grudging respect.

"Quick, then, and get it over with," he growls.

"Right." The hobbit draws a deep breath and meets Dwalin's eyes. "You and Thorin… you're very close, I understand that much."

"We were. Not now, it seems."

"So, if I may ask… why do you oppose him?"

"Beg your pardon?" Dwalin grits his teeth to keep his temper from flaring.

"You're the only one who speaks up against him. We're all seeing what he's like, we can't help but see, can we?" Bilbo's laugh sounds hollow. "That's not… normal, is it? But you're the only one who questions him. It made me wonder."

"What's it to you?" Dwalin snarls, his anger rising slowly. "Can't see how that's any of your business, Master Burglar."

"Maybe not." Bilbo's hand twists nervously inside the pocket of his coat. "You said you didn't want a war."

"Well, I don't."

"What if there was a way to prevent it?"

Dwalin's thoughts come to a sudden halt. He does not even spare a thought on the way he must be gaping at the hobbit.

"How?" he demands.

"You're going to kill me. I know you will." Bilbo lets out a shaky breath. "Right, then. What if I told you that I might know… I don't have it on me, just so you understand… but what if I know where the Arkenstone is?"

That is not what Dwalin had hoped to hear. "Thorin will be delighted," he says curtly.

"But I don't think I should give it to him." The hobbit takes a step back, clearly prepared to run. "No, hear me out. He wants it so much. I've never seen anybody want a thing so much." He pauses, biting his lip and avoiding Dwalin's eyes. His right hand is still moving in his pocket.

"It is a dangerous thing," he continues softly, "to want something too much. It captures your mind and ensnares your senses. It will never let you go."

"What do you know of it?" Dwalin demands quietly, because this conversation has taken an altogether unexpected turn. He ignores the twinge of fear that tells him the burglar is right, and Dwalin should know because he knows what it means to want something too much.

"Who, me? Oh, nothing. Nothing at all." Bilbo flashes him a winning and entirely fake smile. "Now, as you said, you don't want a war and neither do I. If Thorin's not listening to you or Balin, he'll listen to no-one, right? But if… it's just a thought, mind you, but I really don't know what else to do… if I gave the Arkenstone to Bard, then Thorin would be forced to… ouch, will you get your hands off me!"

For a moment Dwalin's senses are blurred by white-hot fury, and he lifts the insolent little creature by his shirtfront and shoves him roughly against the wall. "How dare you!" he hisses in outrage. "How dare you even suggest such a thing, you treacherous little…"

"Now will you hear me out, you foolish dwarf!" Somehow Bilbo manages to look indignant even with his feet dangling a foot above the ground, and his righteous annoyance surprises Dwalin enough to pause for a moment. This is how a wolf must feel, he thinks, when the rabbit bites back.

"I'll have you know that I could simply have done it," Bilbo informs him angrily. "Snuck over the battlements, it would have been child's play for a master burglar, because that's what I am, if I may remind you. But I didn't. I don't want a war, I don't want them all dead, Kíli and Fíli and Bofur and all the others, and if you've got a better idea, I'll be delighted to hear it!" 

Slowly Dwalin sets him back to the ground and lets him go. He slumps heavily against the wall and closes his eyes.

If Thorin gets hold of the Arkenstone, then it is over.

Handing it over to the enemy is the last thing he would agree to do if he lived to be a thousand years.

But if it remained hidden…

Dwalin fights back the nausea that is rising in his throat. This is high treason. The mere fact that he is considering it must be counted as such.

He does not know how long he remains still and silent, but when he opens his eyes, the hobbit is still watching patiently. Bilbo's face is drawn and pale, and dark rings are shadowing his eyes.

"Maybe," Dwalin says slowly, "if we would hide it. Just for a while. Just until he's recovered."

"But what if…" Bilbo begins, and then breaks off. Dwalin glares at him. The suggestion that Thorin may never recover will not be voiced in his presence. The burglar clears his throat.

"So. How do you think that would help?"

Dwalin breathes deeply and steels himself. This is the one chance he has been waiting for almost eighty years. He has no choice but to take it, even if it makes him the lowest of traitors. If Thorin ever learns about this, their friendship will be ruined beyond repair, and it is no less than he deserves.

"Do you have any idea," he asks, "what the Arkenstone is?"

 

(- End of part 1 -)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I am truly sorry about the long delay. In a very unfortunate combination of events, first I and then my beta were completely eaten up by RL issues for several weeks each. I used some of the time to work on later chapters, though, so the next updates shouldn’t take quite as long. (I hope ;-) )._

As the days pass, even Dwalin must admit that Thorin's recovery does not make any significant progress. 

And this is what he chooses to believe when, with a considerable force of will, he manages to delude himself. The truth is that his friend's condition is deteriorating with alarming speed. Dwalin never sees him sleep or eat, and the few feverish words he speaks invariably concern his treasure and birthright, or the war he is bound to wage upon those who oppose him. Dwalin appreciates the treasure, and his fury towards their enemies is profound; but now, more than ever, they need a rational leader who will make an efficient case for their claims, not a raving lunatic who is liable to get them all killed.

He is old enough to remember Thrór. Thorin's grandfather was a good king until the madness took him, until his young grandson needed to drag him away from a dragon's fire when he himself was unable to turn his back on his riches. Now the same demons are taking hold of Thorin's soul, and Dwalin can only watch helplessly. It nearly makes him burst with rage.

None of his companions will speak against their leader, and Dwalin does not like to imagine what would happen if they did. The cheer that overwhelmed all but him at the first sight of the treasure has vanished entirely, and he would like to think that the unexpected crisis was forging a bond of steel among his companions, except that it doesn't. Siblings keep to siblings, kin to kin, and more than once Dwalin prevents a fistfight when tempers run high and voices are raised. Bofur sports a ragged cut on his left cheek for calling Dori a "self-important bastard". Kíli and Ori are currently not on speaking terms. Balin rarely speaks at all.

Bilbo Baggins drops beside him and shoves a water flask under his nose, and Dwalin is momentarily distracted from his dark thoughts.

"Anything stirring out there?" the hobbit inquires, and Dwalin shakes his head wearily. The armies of men and elves have made themselves quite comfortable on their doorstep. It does not look as though they will leave on their own accord. 

Bilbo gives him a tired little chuckle, and Dwalin looks up at him. Their burglar is just as haggard as the rest of them, and chances are that he is frightened out of his wits. Upon his first impression, Dwalin would have been willing to bet that he would not last more than two days in this environment. Now it seems like their hobbit is the only sane person left in this mountain, and Dwalin finds him an unexpected comfort.

"I wish Gandalf would come," Bilbo admits softly. "I wonder what's keeping him. He's… well, he's a wizard, nothing can happen to a wizard, right?"

Dwalin's eyes narrow. "You're worried."

"Yes. Yes, I am. I wonder why that may be," Bilbo retorts sharply. For a moment they are both silent, then the hobbit continues, "I'm sorry. But he said he'd meet us here. I cannot believe he abandoned us. "

_Get used to the idea, lad,_ Dwalin thinks, but he does not say it aloud. Instead he drops a hand on the hobbit's shoulder. "You're doing well," he says gruffly. "Keep it up." 

Bilbo gives him a tired look that very much mirrors Dwalin's own feelings. They are bound together by a conspiracy that goes against everything Dwalin believes in, they do not even have a decent plan, and they must trust each other although Dwalin trusts none but his kin and Bilbo knows of his loyalties. Yet only they know where the Arkenstone is hidden, only they have a faint chance to prevent a disaster at the cost of their own peace of mind, and Dwalin finds himself unexpectedly glad to have a companion who possesses a spine of steel and a lightning-quick mind.

 

But for all of the hobbit's cleverness he is not a politician, and they do need some kind of strategy. Dwalin finds his brother pacing the battlements and surveying the enemies' camps with narrowed eyes. For a while he watches as Balin's footsteps turn and turn again like those of a caged wolf, and he needs to force himself to breathe evenly. Balin is not a nervous person. He must be the most serene dwarf Dwalin has ever known. He is not supposed to pace with tension visible in every step and his fingers all but tearing the sleeves of his coat. He is certainly not supposed to startle as his brother steps forward and touches his arm.

"Dwalin!" It takes Balin only a split second to compose himself, but it is enough for Dwalin to notice. His brother gestures vaguely at the tents that crowd the foot of the mountain.

"Whacking my brain about these," he explains without elaborating further. Dwalin nods.

"I wanted to talk about that," he replies. "Any ideas yet?" 

Balin shakes his head. The look in his eyes comes dangerously close to despair.

Neither of them speaks for a moment. The shrill cries of a raven sound through the wintry silence, and Dwalin watches the bird as it circles slowly across the pale sky. Distant shouting drifts upwards from the camps below.

"Balin," Dwalin begins eventually, trying as well as he can to keep his voice low. "If we don't find the Arkenstone… what options do we have?"

Balin gives him a cautious look and purses his lips. "Well, there's always the possibility that Dáin will assist us without the Stone and we can drive them away…"

"Assist us in which way?"

Balin's eyes narrow. "What do you mean?"

Dwalin refuses to meet his gaze. "We can fight," he says very slowly. "We will lose. And even if we don't, we cannot survive if we're isolated. You know that."

Balin says nothing. Dwalin clenches his teeth and waits.

"Thorin will not parley," his brother states eventually. "Neither will they."

"They might."

"You heard them," Balin hisses. His eyes are flaring with anger.

"I did," Dwalin snaps back, "and as much as I hate it, they have the upper hand. Who's the politician, you or me?"

Balin huffs and looks away. Dwalin feels his temper rise again, and for a moment he needs to close his eyes and stifle his urge to scream.

"Thorin will not parley," Balin repeats doggedly, and there is the heart of the matter, the unthinkable thing Dwalin must do to keep his promise to a ghost.

"If Thorin will not parley," he says very quietly, "someone else must."

The silence that follows his words is almost tangible. He looks up to see Balin stare at him in horror.

Dwalin swallows and averts his gaze. There is no need to elaborate, for they both know all there is to know. He is not foolish enough to think that one day Thorin will thank him for this, although he still refuses to believe that his friend's condition will be permanent; but he will endure all there is to endure if that is what it takes to change fate.

He can only hope that Balin will understand. 

There is an audible sigh, and when Dwalin meets Balin's eyes, he sees with a start that his brother is blinking back tears.

"I must think," Balin informs him curtly, and then he walks away across the battlements and disappears into the entrance at the farther side. On his way to the forges, Dwalin guesses, probably to work off some energy with the repairs.

He remains where he stands, simply because he cannot bear to make a move while his mind is an incoherent whirl of guilt and despair and violent anger. He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes deeply to control himself, and then he freezes.

"And what precisely," inquires a familiar voice behind him, "is that plan of yours?"

 

He takes a few more moments just to breathe in and out, incapable as he is of any other thought. Then, slowly, he turns around to face his king.

Thorin is standing in the doorway with his arms crossed and a positively thunderous expression on his face. Dwalin cannot remember to have ever seen him so pale, and the emotions flitting across his features, emotions that are so easy to read because Dwalin knows him so well, range from shocked disbelief and terrible hurt to mindless, all-encompassing fury.

Dwalin straightens his back. "I don't have a plan," he claims, and that is at least partly the truth.

"You're lying." Thorin advances him now, and Dwalin flexes his hands because it is very likely that he will have to defend himself. "I'm not a fool, Dwalin. You, of all people. _You!_ " The last word comes out as a scream, and then he has gripped Dwalin's shirt and slams him against the wall with so much force that Dwalin's breath leaves him for a moment. He gasps for air and finds too little because a rough hand is pressing against his throat.

"Traitor," Thorin hisses between his teeth, and the fury and pain in his voice mirror Dwalin's own. 

"No." Dwalin tears at the arm that is choking him, but Thorin is a very strong dwarf, especially when he is livid, and Dwalin's vision is beginning to blur. "You'll die. I won't let you. And the lads…"

He wheezes, and Thorin's face is very close now, beautiful and dangerous and twisted in a nameless rage that transcends all sense and reason.

"You made an oath. I won't relieve you."

Dwalin closes his eyes and collects his strength. With all the force that remains to him he kicks out, and when Thorin stumbles back he slips into a defensive position, very well aware that Thorin can kill him if he wants to because he is armed and Dwalin will never raise a weapon against him.

_If this is the end,_ he thinks desperately, _Father, please have mercy on the young ones._

The attack never comes. Thorin grabs the wall to steady himself and stands still. The fury in his gaze is gone, replaced by a look of naked horror.

Dwalin cannot think of a word to say.

Eventually Thorin draws a breath that speaks of carefully measured calm. "Go away," he says, his voice deeper and hoarser than usual. "Leave me alone."

Dwalin turns without a backward glance. He may feel glad that he is still alive, later. Right now he simply walks away from his friend, away from his brother and the lads and all his other companions. 

 

He wanders the empty hallways of Erebor without aim or purpose, and behind the dusty silence there seems to be an echo of laughter and life. He remembers these corridors and staircases, arching pillars in spacious halls and hidden doors that lead to the living quarters. He knows where the guards used to walk their patrols, where one was most likely to come across scholars with books and scrolls and writing kits on their way to the library, and the passages that used to be particularly crowded on market days. Memories engulf him with every step; memories of a time when Erebor was still a bustling metropolis, a centre of trade and scholarship, glorious and proud, with a strong king whose throne was crowned by the light of the Arkenstone. Happy days they were, when his and Thorin's greatest worry was how to sneak off to the market or the training grounds without little Frerin in tow, because they were _big_ and Thorin's little brother was a baby.

What he would give to have Frerin here with them now. He would have made a good friend over the years, a fine advisor too, and possibly the only one who could have controlled his elder brother's moods. But Frerin's ashes are scattered near the gates of Khazad-Dûm, and they have to get along without him.

 

He has no particular destination in mind, but without his conscious decision his feet tread a path he thought forgotten for fourteen decades, and the corridor he walks is as familiar to him as the lines on his palm. He stops in front of a door that is adorned with silver runes, works the mechanism with practiced ease, and steps into his family's old living quarters.

Were it not for the thick layer of dust that covers the entire room, it looks like its inhabitants had simply left for their day's labour. And this was precisely what happened, Dwalin remembers; he had gone off to the training grounds and Balin to a court meeting, his father had been on early guard duty, and apparently his mother had cleared away some dishes and straightened the chairs before she had left for the smithy, the last of them to ever set foot into their home.

They had all meant to return in the evening.

In the dim light that is sufficient for his dwarven eyes, he can see the comfortable fireplace with the thick bearskin rug, the armchairs of polished dark wood that are decorated with delicate carvings, the heavy tapestries that adorn the stone walls. Tiny footprints disturb the dust on his mother's workbench. The weapon shed is open, which is probably his own fault because he'd always left it open and his mother always complained about it. Thick cobwebs are hanging from the door and covering the abandoned pieces of armory inside.

His footsteps echo in the empty rooms as he walks down the hall. The door to his own chambers stands ajar, and he lets his fingers linger on the smooth surface for a moment before he pushes it open.

The room is exactly as he remembers it: the narrow bedstead covered in warm fur blankets and fine linens with a delicate stitch, as befits a member of the royal family; a chair and a desk littered with quills, papers and a half-written letter; several chests and boxes and a cupboard. Nightclothes sewn for narrower shoulders are piled in a careless heap on the floor, and beside them are an old-fashioned short sword and a grimy water flask. On the table beside the bed lie several hair beads of steel and a mithril ear clasp, and also a leather-bound tome on the art and tradition of weapon design during the First Age. The book was a loan from a friend named Alfur, who had been gushing about it quite annoyingly for weeks until Dwalin had demanded to read it for himself. He had found it moderately exciting and meant to give it back within a day or two. Now he will not have to worry about that. Alfur was one of the guards who stood up to Smaug when the beast first entered the mountain. 

He is gone, like Frerin and his parents and King Thrór and so many others. The Erebor Dwalin remembers died with them. Now it is nothing more than an empty shell covered in a century's worth of dust.

The old wood creaks as he sits down heavily upon the bed. He runs a hand across the leather binding and feels his throat constrict. For over a hundred years they were waiting, singing songs and telling stories, and hoping against hope that one day they would return to their rightful home, to the one place where they truly belonged. They walked hundreds of miles and faced hardships and dangers for it, and now he sees that they were chasing a dream.

It is the sort of dream that turns to dust when you lay hands upon it.

Without the dream there is nothing left, nothing but madness for Thorin and helpless fury for Dwalin, and while before they always had each other, now even that last comfort is lost. He is falling into a void, and in his desperate struggle for a hold he is unable to protect those he has promised to keep safe.

He buries his face in his hands and cries for the first time in a century.

 

He does not feel like getting up again, ever; he wants to sit here until he withers away, or maybe his skin will turn hard and grey and he will be simply fade into the cold stone around him. It would be a mercy. But he is not one to avoid his duties, and he knows he cannot linger indefinitely.

He does not look up as heavy, booted footsteps sound in the hallway and approach his room without a pause. Those steps are familiar, and it is not like anyone else would have known how to find him here. Balin sits down beside him and pulls him close, and he buries his face in his brother's shoulder as he used to do when he was a wee dwarfling and the world outside was big and scary.

They remain like that for a long while. Eventually Balin lifts his chin with strong, gentle fingers. He surveys the aching bruises at Dwalin's throat with a critical gaze, and though he merely frowns, Dwalin can read his face well enough to know that his brother is very much angered by the sight.

"How did you get these, nadadith?"

Dwalin chuckles, though he has never felt less like laughing in his life.

"My own carelessness. Thorin heard what I had to say to you on the battlements. We had a fight."

"I see." Balin's expression darkens. "That means we have to act quickly. If only there was time to come up with a fool-proof plan…"

They sit together in silence for a while, and Dwalin takes a moment to curse his own fate. He hates what he needs to do. Thorin is right in calling him a traitor, and he does not even know half of it. And now it is not only his own betrayal that weighs upon his shoulders, but he has also convinced his own brother, Thorin's most valued advisor, to conspire against the one who is not only their king but also Dwalin's best friend and dearest companion.

Now the only thing he can do to redeem himself, at least before his own eyes and those of their Maker, is to make sure that his deeds achieve their aim.

"No matter what happens," he tells his brother, "we must avoid a war."

Balin nods in his slow, thoughtful way.

"I was hoping you would talk to me," he says quietly. "All those years you've been running yourself to the ground, and now you're acting so strangely. This is what it all comes down to, isn't it? That we must not go to war?"

Dwalin nods mutely.

"Something terrible is going to happen and you know it." Balin stares at him as though he is trying to read his mind. "No, you need not speak if you do not choose to. I respect your wishes and I trust your judgment, little brother. But you must know that you can always rely on me. I will help in any way I can."

Dwalin catches his brother's fingers and holds them tight.

"Then help me avoid the battle."

Balin looks at him for a long moment, and then he nods.

"All right. I will."

 

\- End of part II -


	3. Chapter 3

Thorin is nowhere in sight as they return to their fellows, and Dwalin is grateful for it. Balin at his side is chatting nonchalantly about supplies and repairs, apparently unfazed by the fact that he is now actively participating in a treacherous conspiracy against their beloved king and closest friend. But Balin's hand was steady at last when he signed the letter to Dáin, a missive that contained the strict instruction not to attack the hostile armies on sight, but gather in a safe distance and wait for further information.

The letter is highly incriminating, and Dwalin has no idea how Balin intends to justify himself when the matter comes to light, as it is bound to do. But for now, it will buy them time. They have met Thorin's cousin several times during their long years of exile. He is a sensible fellow, and he knows that Balin holds Thorin's trust. He will not get in their way.

 

Unfortunately he is only the first of their worries right now. They must make a compromise with their enemies who, as yet, have not shown the willingness to make concessions. Their solution must be so attractive to Thorin that he might overlook the fact that they acted behind his back. The odds against them are so great that Dwalin would like to tell his brother that this is madness, but he was the one who started it and he knows better than anyone else that the alternative means war. Balin, for his part, appears calmer and more focused than Dwalin has seen him since they entered Erebor. He throws himself upon the mountain of gold with new aplomb, and Dwalin knows this is because the mindless task gives his brother time to think, to plan and strategize.

He will not welcome any distraction, so Dwalin joins Bofur and Dori for the rest of the day. Together they clear away rubble and repair pathways and stairs, silent but in half-way companionable spirits, and Dwalin is glad to get the treasure out of his sight for a while. Bilbo Baggins appears at some point and watches them for some time, but Dwalin chooses to acknowledge him with merely a short nod. He assumes that the hobbit would like to talk to him, but Dwalin will not draw attention to the fact that they are closer than they were only a few days ago, not now that Thorin is already suspecting him of treason. The next time he looks, Bilbo has vanished.

 

Thorin does not appear for dinner even after the rest of his companions have gathered around the fire, and none of them dares to mention it. An uneasy silence lies upon the group. Even Bofur's usual nerve-racking cheer has vanished, and now that Dwalin looks at the miner's stern and hardened features, he finds that he misses it. Bilbo sits beside his friend, pale and distracted, and waves off the extra ration of cram that Bofur attempts to force on him. Ori's head is leaning against Dori's shoulder with the unconditional trust of a younger sibling. As Dwalin meets Fíli's gaze he notices that the lad is watching him with worry written all over his face. He shrugs, and Fíli's mouth tightens. The young dwarf pats his brother's shoulder before he gets up and walks away, but he returns only a short while later, looking dissatisfied.

Dwalin himself goes looking while the others make their lair beside the fire. It does not take him long. Thorin is leaning against a pillar at the far end of the treasury, all but hidden in the shadows, his arms crossed and his gaze roaming over the gold. Dwalin cannot read the king's expression from where he stands, and Thorin does not acknowledge Dwalin's presence although he must have heard him coming, which, Dwalin supposes, is no less than he deserves. He lingers for a while, but there really is nothing to say, so eventually he turns and walks away. 

 

"Tomorrow," Balin whispers as his brother stretches out beside him. "I will speak to Bard tomorrow. He seems to be the most sensible of the lot. But he must not know that we are divided."

Dwalin grunts and shoves his coat under his head.

"There's something in it for him," Balin continues softly, and there is a strange agitation in his voice that makes Dwalin blink. "We always said we would help rebuild Dale. Do you remember Dale, Dwalin?"

"Some of it." Dwalin frowns as he recalls narrow streets and fine stonework, menfolk in colorful attire and shops and markets that offered wares and food of every variety. "It was beautiful, I guess."

"Aye. It was." Balin pauses. "It could be again."

With that he rolls onto his back and closes his eyes. Dwalin stares into the darkness and wills himself to hope.

 

The hostile armies are vast. Hundreds of men and elves have made their camp at the foot of the mountain, blocking the gate and cutting off the roads to Laketown and Mirkwood. Dwalin observes them from a small balcony carved deep into the rock and tries to calculate how many warriors they will need to defy them if Balin's plan fails, and how they would have to be stationed. A soft snow is falling from dreary grey skies, and the roads and wastelands and army tents are already covered by a thin blanket of white. The camps are quiet, not buzzing with activity in anticipation of a battle, he notes. They do not expect the fight that could be upon them soon enough, whenever the dwarven army arrives that Dáin is leading towards Erebor this very moment, held back only by Balin's word. It would be a slaughter the like of which the free races of Middle Earth have not seen in centuries, and the white blanket would be stained with red.

_What for do we need the forces of darkness,_ Dwalin thinks bitterly. _Screw the orcs and goblins and the old stories of nameless evil. Offer a mountain full of dwarven gold, and all alliances will drown in blood._

 

There is a scratching sound from the doorway, and heavy footsteps announce that his moment of solitude is about to be disturbed. He does not turn around, and neither does Thorin acknowledge his presence as he walks past and leans heavily upon the railing.

The moment of silence stretches uncomfortably. Dwalin has no idea what to say, so he says nothing.

"You said we would die." Thorin stares at the enemies' camps, but Dwalin can see that he does not focus. "How do you know?"

"I don't know." Dwalin leans back against the wall and crosses his arms. "What do you expect from a battle?"

"You've said it twice, now. Me and the lads. Balin too, from the first time you mentioned it. You do know."

The silence is stifling, and eventually Thorin looks back at him with a frown. 

"Don't ask," Dwalin evades, just as he did all those years ago, and it sounds an awful lot like begging.

"But I am asking." Thorin pauses, and Dwalin can see that he is clenching the railing so tightly that his knuckles have gone white. "I should have asked years ago. You're hiding something, Dwalin, I know you are, and I must know why you are doing this. Tell me." He draws a deep breath and adds very quietly, "Please."

It is that which is too much to take. Thorin could have ordered him, demanded the truth in righteous fury, but instead it is the quiet plea of a desperate dwarrow that breaks the defenses which shielded the truth for eighty years. Here they are, looking at the charred remains of a dream and the ruins of their life-long friendship. There is nothing left for them but the truth.

"Víli showed me." The words come reluctantly, and he wishes he could take them back as soon as he has spoken them. "The day he died. He asked me to save you. I've been trying, all this time."

There is a long pause. Dwalin waits for the verdict.

At last Thorin shakes his head in disbelief.

"All this time," he echoes with a strange calm that makes Dwalin's heart constrict. "All these years. Why did you never tell me?"

"What good would it have done?"

Thorin laughs humorlessly and shakes his head again, but he does not answer.

"What good will it do now?" Dwalin demands, angry now and determined to press his advantage. "Do you see why I won't let you start a battle if I can help it? Will it change anything that you know now?"

"What do you expect me to do?" Thorin snaps. "Grovel at their feet? Throw our heritage to the dogs? If only we had the Arkenstone…"

This is the exact moment when Dwalin's iron self-control breaks to pieces, and raw fury pulls him under like an avalanche. "It would change nothing, Thorin!" he roars. " _Nothing,_ do you hear me? They will still fight! You will still die!"

"And what of it?" Thorin screams back. "What do you think I have left? My kingdom lies in ruins, the Arkenstone is lost, my enemies are laughing in my face and my best friends conspire behind my back!"

"Thorin..."

"Keeping secrets for eighty years..."

"I was trying to protect you!"

"I don't need your protection!"

Dwalin sways on his feet as though Thorin's words were a physical blow. "That's not true," he says numbly. "You always did. I always..." 

He breaks off and stares at his friend. Thorin is breathing heavily, but he does not avert his gaze.

After a moment Dwalin leans against the wall. He hopes the gesture comes across as nonchalant, when in fact his legs do not support him as they should.

"So you do not care about yourself," he says bitterly. "You want to back out. Suit yourself."

"How dare you..."

"But think of the lads before you throw their lives away. Think of my brother. And what do you want me to tell your sister when I return all alone?"

There is a long pause.

At last Thorin turns away, leans his elbows upon the railing and buries his face in his broad hands. Dwalin feels utterly at a loss, and in his helpless rage he wishes nothing more than to toss the Arkenstone into the darkest abyss of the mountain, never to be found again. He wishes he could wipe the hostile armies away with a wave of his hand, or turn back time and find himself awakening in a simple dwelling in the Blue Mountains, warm and securely entangled with another body that smells of leather and sweat and intimacy.

But he is no more than a humble warrior. He should have known better than to try and change fate.

Yet there is another thought burning in his mind, kindled by fear and despair and anger, a thought he has kept to himself for over a hundred years and never admitted openly. It is the only thing that comes to his mind right now, and he feels that this might be the last chance to say it and be heard.

"I love you," he admits quietly. "I cannot lose you. Promise me you'll never leave me behind."

It is easier than he thought, to speak of it. Perhaps he should have done so earlier. Or perhaps it does not matter, because they have both known for a century.

Thorin says nothing for a long moment. Then he lifts his head to look up at Dwalin, pale and sad but not the least bit surprised.

"That is a promise I cannot keep," he objects. "You know I can't."

"You can promise to try." Dwalin pushes himself away from the wall and steps beside him before he adds , "I did."

Thorin holds his gaze for a long while, but eventually he nods.

"Aye. I can do that."

He leans against Dwalin who buries his face in his king's grimy black hair, and then Thorin turns around to catch his lips with his own. The kiss turns passionate within an instant as Thorin clutches Dwalin's hair and pushes his tongue into his friend's mouth, and Dwalin pulls him close and feels the heat rise in his limbs even though they are separated by far too many layers of rough wool and thick leather. It has been a long time since they kissed like this, urgent and desperate and full of desire, and Dwalin thinks that if the world should end this very instant, it would not be so bad after all.

Running footsteps disturb their moment of privacy, and they break apart to see Kíli slithering around a corner, nearly doubling over in his haste. "Uncle Thorin!" he calls before he takes in the situation and falters. "I'm sorry. But a raven has arrived with news, I didn't even know you sent one, but he's just returned and you need to come down at once."

"Dáin is to arrive at nightfall." Thorin frowns, surely because he knows nothing of the raven Balin sent to his cousin, and Dwalin shifts uncomfortably on his feet. "I already know, Kíli."

"No." Kíli's dark curls fly as he shakes his head vigorously. "Not Dáin, Uncle. Orcs. Thousands of orcs, no more than a day's travel from here." He pauses to take a deep breath, and his eyes are wide with terror. "Azog is leading an army to Erebor."

 

Thorin has never been a brilliant politician. He is too rash and too stubborn, and while he was a good and respected ruler back in the Ered Luin, he used to be wise enough to rely on Dís and Balin for the more delicate bargaining. But now they are left with no choice, and the newly re-instated King Under The Mountain in full royal attire asks access to the elven king's battle tent, the same tent that has been put there to force him into submission. Dwalin is trailing behind him at his brother's side, clad in shiny armour but nervous for the lack of weapons they had to leave behind on a diplomatic mission.

At least the elf is surprised to see them. He rises from his seat in one fluid motion while the rest of the assembly that is gathered around a small table simply stare at them as though they were some kind of apparition. Dwalin recognizes the obnoxious elfling who stole Orcrist, along with two blonde guards of standard elven appearance. The human Bard is seated beside the king, accompanied by a ragged-looking man who is probably meant to pose as a soldier. Sitting on the other side, looking slightly bruised but not much worse to wear, is Gandalf.

"Now this is a surprise," Thranduil greets them smoothly, and his bow is so casual it is very nearly insulting. Thorin bests him by not bowing back. "Thorin Oakenshield himself deigns to join us. What gives us the honour?"

He does not address Thorin with his title, which is another slight, but Thorin waves it off with an impatient shake of his head. "I have no time for niceties," he snarls. "Gandalf. What is the meaning of this?"

"I am negotiating," the wizard informs them as he rises. He makes to move towards them but halts with a side glance at Bard. "For your sake, among others. Thorin, I cannot say how happy I am to see you and your companions alive and hale."

"Some of us would have been glad to know the same of you," Balin interjects with a frown, which is a much politer way of expressing his displeasure than Dwalin would have chosen. But the wizard just sighs.

"I was delayed." He does sound apologetic. "And I am truly sorry that I was unable to come to your aid. But I arrived with grave news, and I was impeded from entering the mountain. I found it paramount to make all concerned parties see reason."

Thorin growls, and the boatman glares at him as he rises to his feet. "What were we supposed to do?" he demands angrily. "Allow you the aid of a wizard?"

"You might have noticed that I am doing my utmost to prevent violence," Gandalf shoots back, but Thorin interrupts him.

"Enough!" he barks, and his deep voice carries so much force that all eyes turn towards him instantly. Thorin stands very straight, radiant in his grandfather's golden armour and the raven crown, and for a moment he looks very much like Thrór did when he was still a strong and proud ruler. 

"I am informed that by this time on the morrow the fields around the mountain will be overrun by orcs," he announces. "I would ask you to aid us, or get out of our way."

A falling nail could have been heard in the silence that follows.

Gandalf is the first to move. He sighs heavily, and when he sits down his face looks older and wearier than before.

"So it already begins," he says slowly. "Erebor will be the first site of the battle. I hoped that we would have more time."

"They do not attack so big a fortress," the elven king protests. "There cannot be so many yet. They have been stirring for a while, yes, but on such a scale…"

"This is what I have been trying to tell you," Gandalf interrupts him. "I was in Dol Guldur. I saw them with my own eyes, and I would not have lived to tell the tale had it not been for the help of the Lady of Lórien. They are building an army large enough to conquer Middle Earth."

Again silence falls over the small group. Dwalin remembers the tales his parents used to tell him, ancient legends of a dark age when the world was overrun by minions of a nameless evil. There was a fortress and a huge battle and a magic ring, and it was all very exciting to a young dwarf who lived almost three thousand years later, but now he feels pure horror creeping up his spine. Thorin turns to meet his gaze, and Dwalin knows he remembers those tales as well. His friend's eyes are very dark in the dim light of the tent. Dwalin suppresses the urge to reach for his hand. 

Eventually Balin speaks up, and his voice is as calm as ever. 

"Aid would be appreciated."

"Aid?" The human looks from one to the other, a look of disbelief of his face. "You are not even willing to repay us for the help we gave you to reach the mountain, let alone the sacrifices we were forced to make on your behalf. Now you expect us to risk our lives in your fight?"

"You are young, heir of Girion," the wizard answers in Balin's stead. "Human lives are short and you have no idea of the powers we must unite against. This is no dwarven fight, Bard. The orc hordes will not stop when they have taken Erebor. Laketown will be next, and then Mirkwood."

He looks from Bard to Thranduil, then to Thorin. Dwalin wonders briefly if there is some magic in his summoning gaze but decides that for once, if it works in their favour, he is not about to complain.

"You must stand together," the wizard declares, and his voice carries an urgency that Dwalin has never heard from him. "Or you will perish, we all will perish. You know what we are up against, King of the Woodland. You remember."

The elf has sunken to his seat. His skin has turned a ghostly shade of white that looks uncanny on a living being, and the pale blue eyes are fixed on the wizard but not looking at him, as if he sees beyond that what is and beholds the shadows of the things that were, unspeakable horrors that should best remain forgotten. Very slowly he nods.

"So be it," he admits tonelessly. "You have our swords and arrows, Mountain King."

Thorin's body tenses, and Dwalin puts a hand on his back. He knows that his friend does not like this any more than he himself does, and still none can promise that the elves will not turn their backs as they did before, but fighting alongside them is surely better than fighting against them when there are orc hordes to face.

It is only a moment before Thorin regains his control and manages a stiff little bow.

"Thank you," he returns, looking as if he is all but choking on the words.

All eyes turn toward the human. Bard does not look up but fiddles with the hem of his tunic.

"You are right," he declares eventually. "I do not understand. But it seems that I have no choice but to trust you in this, Gandalf. We shall remain here as well."

"Thank you," Thorin repeats, and this time it sound slightly more sincere. 

"In the old days there was an alliance between the Mountain and the Menfolk of Dale," Balin reminisces, though his smile is slightly strained. "Now we are united once again. It is as it should be."

"As to the treasure," Thorin continues, and his voice takes on a sharp edge, "This is not to be negotiated today. But I have a request, and am willing to pay a princely sum to those who can grant it."

 

It is several hours later that Dwalin returns to the Mountain. He is uncomfortable with the knowledge that he is leaving Thorin in a fragile temper and surrounded by those who might turn against him should they view it as their gain. But Balin is with him and Dáin joined the group shortly after his arrival, and the common threat seems to unite the interests of the involved parties insofar as to make them look beyond personal advantages for once. Dwalin left the assembly discussing battle strategies and moving pieces of wood and brass on a field table, with the elven king's medical pouch serving as an impromptu placeholder for the Lonely Mountain. But strategies will serve little if the weapons are blunt and the fighters unprepared, and so Dwalin decides to take care of the practical necessities. He leads their companions through the vast chambers that used to supply the guards and warriors of Erebor, and under his critical supervision everyone chooses weapons and armor of their preference.

There is talk of fighting styles and war lore as they sit together and clean their supplies, but Dwalin does not join the conversation. He is too unsettled by the news he learned from the wizard, and the terrible dread that weighs him down is growing stronger by the minute. They were told that the dark forces are stirring again, and they were hunted by orcs for their entire journey; but never has the threat felt so real, and only now does he understand the merciless truth, the fact that he never really stood a chance.

For all his plans and all his efforts, fate has overruled him in the end and the battle will find them after all. It will claim the lives of those he loves just as he has feared it would for all these years, ever since a dead friend showed him a future he thought he could prevent if he just tried hard enough.

They will do all they can to save the lads. Fíli would make a fine king, young though he is, and he carries Thorin's decision to minimize his involvement in the battle far more gracefully than Kíli, who is sulking in a corner. If they, at least, could be spared, Dwalin's efforts would not be entirely in vain. It is the only thing he has left to hope.

 

As he watches his companions bustle about in restless activity, he notices that one of them is missing. Bilbo is not with them as they make their preparations, and so when everybody is carrying out his instructions and the fine twin axes he chose for himself are sharpened, Dwalin goes looking for him.

He finds the hobbit on the battlements above the gate. Bilbo sits on a stone bench, huddled in an ancient bearskin cloak that shows little more than his head and the hand that holds his pipe. A rich, sweet smell fills the air, and the burglar looks up as Dwalin approaches.

"I needed to get some fresh air," he says by way of explanation. "Good evening, Master Dwarf. Would you care for a smoke?"

Dwalin opens his mouth to remind him of duties and preparations, and then he closes it again. This may very well be the last night of his life. It's as good a time for a pipe as any.

So he sits down beside the hobbit, and Bilbo hands him a tobacco pouch.

"Old Toby", he explains, "It's the finest pipe-weed of the Shire, calms the nerves like nothing else. Let no-one say you died without trying it at least once."

It's very different from the rough and bitter tobacco that is common among his own folk, but Dwalin finds that he does not mind. For a long while they sit in silence, both of them watching the campfires below and the sparkling stars above and the glitter of ice crystals dancing in a light breeze.

"The orc army will arrive before noon," Dwalin says at last. "You should stay with the elven archers, Mister Baggins, it is safest place to be. If the mountain is taken, it will become a death trap."

The burglar nods slowly. "I know," he replies. "So much for all our valiant efforts. Now there will be a battle after all, though I dare say we are hardly to blame for that. But I wish we could have done more."

Dwalin laughs mirthlessly. "You've no idea how much I have done. If it was possible to change fate..." He breaks off and grits his teeth. This is not something he will share with an outsider.

"Maybe you already have."

Bilbo is not looking at him but staring thoughtfully into the distance.

"Hobbits are a simple people, you see. We value our small comforts. A good meal, a merry song." He gestures with the hand that is holding his pipe. "Sometimes it's those small things that make a difference. Do you know my father used to tell me how he meant to spend one winter morning on his garden bench? It was a very fine morning indeed, not like those we have these days, you understand, with blue skies and the sun as warm as it can get in midwinter. Now my father wanted nothing more than to sit on his bench with a pipe and a good book and enjoy a few peaceful hours."

Bilbo pauses to take a long drag of his pipe. Dwalin very nearly tells him that he is not in the mood for family tales, but they might die tomorrow and the tale is obviously important to Bilbo, so he says nothing.

"But the bench was covered in snow," the hobbit continues after a moment, "and when he had swiped it away, it was too wet to sit on. Now my father was a practical hobbit, and he went back to the kitchen to fetch a towel, but when he passed the pantry he remembered that he had nearly run out of flour and he might as well fetch it right away so he could make a few nice apple pancakes for Elevenses. So he went down to the market, and when he arrived at the baker's stall, Hilda Gamgee it was, favourite aunt of my gardener's, he never gets tired of praising her pasties… but where was I?" 

He clears his throat the way a storyteller does for dramatic effect. 

"Ah yes, my father. So he gets there and there is this beautiful young lady, all dark curls and blue eyes and a merry smile. And she is just telling Mrs Gamgee that she wants to make some pancakes for Elevenses! He says they were still arguing about the best recipe half an hour later, and then he invited her for tea. She came around a lot more often after that."

Bilbo smiles reminiscently, and Dwalin begins to understand where this story is going.

"She was your mother," he says, and it is not a question.

"Indeed. Belladonna Took, eldest daughter of the Old Took. She was not deemed respectable among my kin because she went and got herself into _adventures_. She even traveled as far as Rivendell once. I wish she could see me now." 

They are both silent for a while, until Bilbo sighs and draws the cloak tighter around his narrow shoulders.

"What I mean to say," he concludes, "is that, in essence, my father might not have married my mother if it hadn't been for the snow that covered his garden bench."

He gives Dwalin a thoughtful look.

"Can you tell," he asks, "how many of those little things you may already have changed?"

Dwalin looks at him in surprise. The thought had not occurred to him, and much less can he fathom how the hobbit can possibly understand his plight. What a strange little creature their burglar is, to faint at the mere mention of danger and yet stand alone between a helpless friend and his murderous foe, to bargain with a fire-breathing dragon and somehow understand things he should have no way of knowing.

"You're a wise one, Mister Baggins," he admits at last. Bilbo gives him a nervous little smile.

"Am I? Not always, I might say. Just the other day I came close to committing a very great folly, perhaps the greatest of my life... but that's over and done with," he adds quickly before Dwalin can interrupt. "Refill your pipe, my friend, and then let us go. I would like to get some sleep before the night is over."

 

_End of part 3_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid the next chapter will have to wait until November; I'm currently busy with my acd_holmesfest fic, and there's a deadline to meet (Oct 25th). But I hope to finish this entire story before the third movie is released. Not sure I'll make it, but still, wish me luck?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long wait. This was meant to be one long chapter that included the battle, but it was getting so long and giving me so much of a headache that I decided to split it. (Which means that you could have gotten _this_ part several weeks earlier. *facepalm*)
> 
> The good news is that I've finally wrestled the damned battle scene into submission and the next chapter is already being betaed, so there should be another update soon.

No-one thinks much of sleep that night, though they all know they need some rest to meet the enemy with a sharp mind and a strong arm. They are gathered in tight groups, sharing the little time that remains with their loved ones, talking and smoking and occasionally exchanging a weary joke. Dwalin joins Fíli and Kíli upon his return. The two young dwarrows have retreated into a corner and are talking in low, urgent tones. They fall silent at Dwalin's approach.

There are no words to lose about Thorin's decision. The princes will remain with the elven army in the vicinity of the king's guard. It is no guarantee for their safety, but it minimizes the risk, for the archers will be kept apart from the thick of the battle. It will leave Fíli with little opportunity to intervene, as he is far less adept with the bow than Kíli is; but the young heir is bowing to his uncle's orders with grim respect, and right now he is probably attempting to talk some sense into his angry, reckless brother. There is much of Thorin in Kíli, Dwalin muses; the stubborn refusal to accept the circumstances, the urge to prove himself, the iron will to pursue his aims and the constant fear of failure. Kíli is afraid, he knows, afraid of losing the uncle he loves as he would have loved his own father, and he is willing to risk anything to save Thorin's life.

He is going to lose everything if he gets his way.

There is an awkward pause as Dwalin settles beside them, and then Kíli looks at him with open defiance in his expression.

"I don't like it," he states the obvious. "Just so you know. Don't expect I will ever be fine with it."

"No use grousing about that, lad," Dwalin returns. "You heard Thorin. You're of no use to Erebor if you're dead. Besides, Azog's out for Durin blood and he'll be delighted to get all three of you served on a silver platter."

Kíli pales behind his dark fringe, and Dwalin realizes that brutal honesty may not have been the wisest approach. Yet it is something the lads need to know.

"But Uncle..." Kíli objects, and his voice carries an edge of panic.

"Dwalin's with him." Fíli gives him a strained smile and puts an arm around his brother's shoulders. "If anyone can return Uncle in one piece, it's him. Isn't it?" He looks at Dwalin, his blue eyes sad and anxious and holding a silent plea.

Dwalin thinks of Dís, who had the strength to remain behind as duty demanded and chose to trust him to keep her children safe, although they both knew he could not promise it.

He thinks of Víli's voice inside his mind, the desperate plea that changed Dwalin's life forever, and the sad smile as his friend's ghost had turned away to walk into the shadows. _Save them. Please._

Fíli has his mother's sense and his father's heart, and so Dwalin tells him just what he told both his parents.

"I do not know," he confesses. "But I will do everything that is in my power. I promise."

 

It is already late when Thorin and Balin return to the Mountain, but none of their companions are asleep. Dwalin longs to walk up to his friend and embrace him, to sit with him and Balin and savor the last hours that may be given to them, but Thorin's work is not over. He walks from one to the other, tries to give courage and lift spirits and find the right words for each of his trusted companions. He is not in the state of mind to do it, but he cannot escape the duties of a king. Dwalin and Balin sit together in silence and Dwalin is reminded of Azanulbizar, of another night that had them crowding together and too aware that their shared years might end just the next day. 

Their father had been with them that night. It was the last quiet talk they ever shared with him.

There is so much he wishes to tell his brother, but no words are enough to express his feelings, so he says nothing. Balin looks pale and tired, and now and then he looks up to take in his surroundings with the same haunted look he has been wearing ever since they entered the mountain. He is not comfortable in these halls, and Dwalin can only imagine the faces his brother sees when he gazes into the void, shadows of those that passed away so many years ago. For the first time he thinks that Balin should never have returned here. Perhaps it would have been better if none of them had.

He tries not to think about sightless dark eyes and blood that soaks a snowy beard.

"I'm sorry," Balin tells him eventually. "I'm sorry that I couldn't prevent the battle. Now all we can do is hope for the best."

"We need to protect Thorin," Dwalin returns, and Balin nods as if he already knows.

Dwalin wonders briefly if he should warn his sibling about his own fate, but decides against it. If he were to die tomorrow, he would rather not know in advance.

Instead he reaches for Balin's hand and presses it hard, and for the first time since they entered the mountain, his brother's smile is genuine.

 

The noise of loud dwarven voices has descended to a constant low whisper when Dwalin finally rises and searches for Thorin. None of the Company has seen him for a while, but Dwalin has a vague idea where to find him, and so he makes his way along dusty corridors and long flights of staircases until he reaches the giant, breathtaking hall of the throne room.

The huge statues are no more than a shadow in the dark, and he knows that none but dwarven eyes could perceive them in the darkness, now that only starlight falls through the large windows that are chiseled into the black rock. None but a dwarf could tread surely upon the narrow walkway that leads towards the broken throne, or detect the lonely figure that is huddled upon it without so much as a candle lighting his face. Dwalin walks towards him without falter and bows formally, just as he would if the hall were brightly lit with fires and torches and hundreds of dwarrows were watching from the balustrades, as they used to do in the old days.

Thorin's laugh is no more than a bitter huff.

"Do not mock me, Dwalin."

"I don't." He meets Thorin's eye steadily, but he does not like what he sees. His friend looks sad and dejected, and his posture is not that of a proud king ready to lead his people. With his hunched shoulders and wrapped tightly in his thick coat he looks like a frightened dwarfling who has retreated to the furthest corner of his own bed. The broken rock of the backrest, the gaping hole left by the Arkenstone complete the picture of utter desolation.

"You deserve these honours and more, and you shall receive them," Dwalin insists. "There is none worthier."

Thorin looks away.

Once again Dwalin curses his own blunt words that never come when he needs them most. He has never possessed Balin's silver tongue, but rarely has he regretted the fact more.

They remain for a moment in silence, but Thorin must know that Dwalin will not leave on his own accord, and so he speaks eventually.

"I said that I am not my grandfather, Dwalin," he says, and his voice is quiet but rough. "I meant it. Whatever evil may have befallen him, my grandfather was a great dwarf. He would have known how to handle this." He leans back and closes his eyes. "I don't belong here."

"That is nonsense, and you know it," Dwalin snaps. Thorin does not answer.

"You led us all the way. We followed you, even Mr. Baggins, even if we could have turned back a hundred times. Why do you think we did that, you thick-headed fool? Because we had nothing better to do?"

"I led you all into doom."

"Maybe, but we knew that." Dwalin is rather tempted to knock some sense into his King's venerable head. "We follow you because we love you, Thorin. We follow you because you are a great leader and your cause is worth fighting for, and we will follow you to the end if we have to. We believe in you. And I'm not talking only for myself."

Thorin gives him a tired look.

"How do you know?"

"Anyone with eyes in their head can see that, but I've talked to them for six months. So have you, by the way, so you should know as well."

Thorin leans back and closes his eyes.

"Gandalf told me to run, remember? Now I've run as far as Erebor and Azog is still coming for me. I can't run anymore. He's going to take all I have and all I care about." He smiles bitterly. "Not that it matters if the world is going to end anyway. Perhaps there is just no running away from fate."

"If I believed that, I would have lost my mind long ago. I have tried to change fate for eighty years, Thorin. Are you telling me that was all for naught?"

Thorin looks at him and does not answer. His eyes are shimmering strangely in the dim light, and Dwalin wonders if his friend is holding back tears.

"Víli didn't believe that," he says defiantly. And, as though it mattered for some unfathomable reason, "Bilbo doesn't, either."

There is a long pause. The statement seems to hang in the air between them, unacknowledged but also unchallenged, and Dwalin clings to the resolution that it means something.

"Come with me," Thorin says at last and rises from the broken throne. "Let us find a place to rest. If this is going to end tomorrow, I wish to spend the rest of my time with you."

 

They walk hand in hand on their way towards the living quarters. Thorin leads the way to Dwalin's chamber again and Dwalin does not question him, not even as he walks straight past the corridor that leads to the private quarters for the King's closest family without a second glance. They settle on the narrow bed and undress each other without a word. It should feel strange, Dwalin muses as he watches his own calloused hands undo the laces on Thorin's shirt and run over the hairy skin underneath, to come together like this on the bed that was his over a century ago when he was still a lad and Thorin nothing but his best friend. The most they did on it was to play dice and spill a pint of beer Thorin had stolen from his father's stock. The consequences were not pleasant.

There is no thought of consequences now as they kiss languidly and Thorin draws Dwalin down to lie naked beside him. They both know every inch of scarred skin that is freely offered to touch, to caress, to commit to memory in every way in case the echo of it will have to suffice for one or the other once tomorrow has passed. There is no counting the times they have been together like this, but rarely have they been so gentle with each other, taken so much time to quell their desires as they do now in the knowledge that it may be the last encounter they will ever have. Dwalin buries one hand in Thorin's thick dark locks, revels in the luxury although the grey strands mean doom, and Thorin kisses the bruises on his throat and slides a rough hand between his thighs.

They take their time to know each other in every way there is to know, an intimate game of overtaking and surrender as their bodies move together until they come to completion one after the other. Afterwards it is Thorin who breaks the silence. As they are stretched out together upon the dusty sheets he asks after Dwalin's visions and Dwalin tells him every detail he remembers, from the beads in Fíli's blood-stained hair to the peaceful expression on Thorin's white face. Thorin listens quietly and without interruption. He is absently running his fingers along the long white scars on Dwalin's upper arm, left by a warg's claw shortly after Azanulbizar and they both remember, but he does not volunteer his opinion, nor does he offer meaningless reassurance or even forgiveness for the fact that Dwalin chose to keep his secret for so many years. Instead he takes Dwalin's hand and kisses it, and they remain together in silence for a while, savoring a moment that should not be spoiled with words.

The others are resting quietly on their bedrolls as Thorin and Dwalin return to the lair, though the usual snoring is notably absent. Thorin curls up beside his nephews while Dwalin settles next to Balin. His brother must have heard it but does not open his eyes, and Dwalin watches his still face for a long while before he falls into a light, fitful sleep.

 

"No. This is unacceptable." 

If their situation were slightly less serious, Dwalin would have roared with laughter. The mere picture of Bilbo Baggins in an ill-fitting mithril shirt would have been comical to begin with, though he would be the first to admit that it is more than earned. But the indignant expression on their burglar's round little face truly cuts it. Bilbo looks as though he is about to lecture Thorin on the propriety of wearing chain-mail before second breakfast, completely oblivious of the priceless value he has been gifted with, while Thorin gapes at him as though he had just grown a second head. Their king is adept at making grand speeches, but hobbitish diplomacy is not his forte.

"It is a serious insult to the line of Durin if you turn it down," Fíli tells him with a good-natured pat on the back when it becomes clear that Thorin is out of his depths. "Imagine you gave someone a beautiful new tea-set for your birthday, and they refused to take it. Like that."

"Oh." Bilbo fiddles awkwardly with his overlong hem. "Oh, I see. Well, in that case... I apologize. It is very pretty."

_Pretty._ A collective groan runs through the small crowd. Thorin opens his mouth and closes it again. The situation is saved by Bofur, who always had the best sense and understanding for the curious working of a hobbit's mind. 

"It is, isn't it?" the miner beams. "Dead useful, too. No orc arrow can pierce this stuff. Now let's find you a decent helmet, shall we?"

He takes Bilbo's arm and drags him off while Bilbo is still stuttering his thanks, and Thorin turns to Dwalin with a stunned expression. 

" _Pretty_?" he repeats helplessly.

Halflings truly are a very strange folk.

 

He has not spoken to Thorin of the Arkenstone, Dwalin thinks as he watches Bilbo and Bofur leave for the armory. He is not sure how to breach the subject, and neither can he tell if the lure of the stone would disrupt the fragile peace that the outside threat has brought them. Thorin is in control now, but it clearly takes an effort. The rage that is still burning within Dwalin will soon be directed against the minions of Azog, and Balin seems calmer now that he has a tangible task to deal with. The tension between the company members has vanished as they stand united against the orc attack. He will not risk their unity by admitting to treason, not in a vital moment like this, but the fact remains that only he and Bilbo know where the Arkenstone lies in its hiding-place, deep in the heart of the mountain. If they die, the Stone will be lost forever.

Perhaps, he thinks grimly, it would be for the best. The old kingdom lies in ruins, and all that is left for its heirs is a treasure that twists the mind of their king and stirs the desire of their enemies. Let the Stone remain a legend and Erebor rise to new glory without the constant reminder of golden days that can never return.

But there is a war to wage before that, and the course of it will take that decision from him. He hopes with all his heart that their burglar will survive the merciless slaughter that was never meant for a friendly scholar who loves books and beauty and all things that grow. Bilbo will make it, Dwalin has to believe that. He should be able to return to the home he loves so much, and his return should be a happy one. He should sit down at his neat little desk and look through his round window and remember them. Perhaps he will write a book about their journey, so none of them will be forgotten. Dwalin rather likes the thought.

 

Outside the mountain the sun is shining very brightly in the pale winter sky. Dwalin squints as he follows Thorin through the side door, and the brightness hurts his eyes, all the more because it is reflected in the snowy fields and meadows across the mountainsides. Bilbo smiles and removes his helmet to shake his curly brown hair in the light breeze. 

"What a lovely day," he says wistfully. "You would hardly believe that something bad could happen when the weather is as fine as this."

"The weather doesn't care for our troubles, my friend," Bofur tells him and rests a hand on his shoulder. It is one of the small gestures that mean so much between all of them, now that they are standing at the edge of doom.

Dwarves do not care for sunlight or blue skies, but there is the tactical advantage of an excellent view, so Dwalin will not grouse about it. Their small group descends the steep slopes towards the elven camp, where Thorin and Balin join the other military strategists and Gandalf in the elven king's tent for a few last-minute instructions. The raven scouts have spotted the orc force around four hours of foot march away in the north. They have some time left to prepare a fitting welcome.

 

The camps are bustling in anticipation, with elves and men striding about with grave faces, saddling horses, cleaning weapons and talking to each other in their own tongues. The dwarf guards of the Iron Hills, doubtlessly Dáin's entourage, do not look more comfortable in these surroundings than Dwalin himself feels - nor, coming to think of it, any of his companions. The small group of dwarves is subjected to far too many suspicious glances, tolerated as there are for the common fight, but not trusted in the slightest. The feeling is entirely mutual. Dwalin can feel the nervous tension among his companions, and even Bilbo has lost his smile and stares blankly towards the wide plains in the west. Somewhere behind them, far across the deep forest and over the Misty Mountains, lies his home. Dwalin can imagine how he must feel now.

 

A slender elf woman with long red hair steps towards their group and addresses Dwalin, most likely because he is the tallest of the group. He recognizes her as one of the soldiers who captured them in Mirkwood. A skilled fighter, he reminds himself, and they are on the same side now so he will not reach for his weapons. She is not smiling, but neither is there any trace of the haughty sneer that seems to be the natural reaction of any elf when faced with dwarves.

"I am Tauriel," she introduces herself. "I am the Captain of the King's guard. My lord sent me to inform you that your princes and your hobbit friend will be under my protection. We will be stationed on the hills yonder in the South, so we can attack with our bows as soon as the enemy is within reach but will not get caught between their forces and the mountain."

"Sounds reasonable," Dwalin admits gruffly. Bilbo's face falls, but he says nothing. The warrior woman lets her gaze glide over the group, and suddenly the hint of a smile lightens up her eyes. Dwalin looks around sharply, only to see it mirrored much more brightly in Kíli's face.

_Damn_.

"So we meet again, milady," the younger prince says with what seems to be his idea of a flirtatious grin. "Not sure if I should count it as progress, but at least there are no bars involved this time."

Fíli gives him a death glare and mutters something that sounds vaguely like "Behave, puppy!" Kíli slides an arm around his brother's waist and gives him a wink. Tauriel is definitely smiling now. 

Dwalin sends a silent prayer to Mahal.

 

He is saved from further intervention when Thorin appears in the entrance of the tent, once again carrying his elven sword and closely followed by Gandalf. The two of them exchange a few serious words Dwalin does not catch before the wizard puts both hands on Thorin's shoulders. He must have spoken well, for Thorin is smiling grimly when he steps to Dwalin's side. 

"Let us be on our way, brothers," he announces. "Let us show the pale orc who is ruling Erebor."

After a brief and intense goodbye the princes and Bilbo follow Tauriel out of the camp. Dwalin does not miss the stubborn glance Kíli sends towards Thorin, and he feels a twinge of unease. But there is no time to dwell on it.

 

(- End of part IV -)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a large part of this chapter before I saw BotFA, that's why the geography differs slightly.

In the end they still have to wait for two hours before the snowy fields in the distance disappear under a swarm of rapidly moving black dots. There are a great many, Dwalin sees at once, far too many to vanquish in a regular fight. Most of them are mounted on wargs, and above them circle huge winged creatures that look like overgrown bats. He has never seen such monstrosities before. 

Dáin's army is waiting for them in front of the main gate, hopelessly outnumbered and seemingly unprepared. They will take the brunt of the attack, and of course it is the dwarves who have to take the blow while they lure their attackers forward in anticipation of an easy victory.

Even though the Mountain is the sole peak in a landscape of rolling hills, its base is carved with canyons and side valleys. Those valleys are now swarming with human warriors while the elven archers have taken every position that allows them to attack the foe from above. They are hiding upon the hilltops and precipices, crouching on top of ancient ruins, lurking in crevices high above the ground with their arrows poised and ready. The bats are going to be a problem, Dwalin thinks with an uneasy look towards the hills south of the gate where the elf king is stationed together with Fíli, Kíli and Bilbo.

 

Thorin and his companions are hiding near the old watchtower named Ravenhill. It is the highest point in the immediate vicinity, perfectly stationed to overlook the entire battlefield and built entirely for this purpose. A sharp cliff makes it difficult to access from one side, so it cannot be entirely surrounded by hostile forces but allows escape across a narrow bridge that leads towards a steep mountain slope. Azog will need such a place as this as soon as he realizes that his troops are surrounded. They can only hope he will not sense the trap before it is too late.

If they manage to deprive the orcs of their leader and ambush them from all sides, they may have a chance to drive them away. It is the best plan they have, and it is better than nothing. Nori is in charge of its first part, which is to drive the orcs out of the watchtower and onto the bridge. At present he is hiding in the bushes at the foot of the tower, accompanied by Ori and the Broadbeam family, while Thorin, Dwalin, Balin, Óin, Glóin and Dori are crouched behind the rocks at the far side of the bridge to block Azog's escape.

 

Dwalin is a seasoned fighter. He has seen countless skirmishes, fought down hundreds of enemies; he can kill without a second thought and bear sights that would make most of his companions sick with disgust. But only once has he seen a slaughter equal to the one that unfolds before his eyes, and he bears the scars to this day. Not all of them are visible.

As he watches the vast troop of orcs charge down upon Dáin's army, sees the vile creatures cheer in madness and bloodlust as they kill and maim, hears the screams and battle-cries of elves and men as they strike their simultaneous attack, it feels for a moment as though he is not here at all but on the bloody fields of Azanulbizar. Horror wells up inside him as he looks upon the unspeakable cruelty that happens in the chaos before his eyes, vicious deeds he cannot prevent as men and dwarves are slaughtered and the horrendous bats attack the elves on the mountainside, tearing them out of their hiding places and letting them fall from a deadly height. The smell of blood mingles with the foul stench of the orcs and their vile mounts, and Dwalin fights the urge to scream and charge into the fray so he does not have to _think_. Balin squeezes his arm so hard that it hurts. His brother's face is white, and he is breathing heavily.

Thorin does not move a muscle.

The valley before them is already littered with bodies, black orcish blood mingling with the red of dwarves and men and elves alike, when a roaring voice sounds over the battle noise. Azog approaches on his huge white warg, surrounded by four large and heavily armed orc soldiers. He shouts again in their strange guttural speech, and the group dismounts. Azog seems even angrier than usual, Dwalin notes. The wargs run off to join the fighting, and it is a rare stroke of luck that they do, for while Nori and his companions would have been able to handle them, they might well have alerted their masters. 

 

As soon as they are gone, their friends slip out of their hiding-place and begin to pile dry branches and straw in the entrances to the tower. Dwalin watches them with apprehension, but it is not long before Thorin grips his arm and points toward the foot of the slope. Two figures are quickly making their way towards them. Gandalf's grey robes are torn and blood-stained, and his face is grave. Behind him trails Bilbo Baggins, white-faced and without his helmet but wearing a look of utter determination.

They join the dwarves behind their boulder, and Thorin turns towards them in alarm.

"What happened?"

"We came to warn you." Bilbo looks terrible despite his gleaming armour. Dwalin recognizes the haunted eyes and ashen complexion of someone who sees a real battle for the first time and is terrified by its cruelty. "The thing is," he continues, and there is hardness in his voice that was not there before, "that the elves have sent scouts. They found out that Azog is not alone. There is a second leader, one that is just as big and... and just as horrible. He's on his way here, he can't be far behind us."

"There were rumors that Azog had a son by the name of Bolg," Gandalf adds. "It appears that they were true. If you proceed as planned, he and his guards will slaughter our friends as soon as they get here. And even if you manage to take out Azog without them, which I consider quite ambitious, someone will be there to replace him." Gandalf looks at Thorin intently. "We must change the plan."

"Mahal be with us." 

Dwalin follows Dori's gaze as his friend looks towards his brothers and their companions on the other side of the bridge. The dwarves are working in quiet efficiency and with remarkable stealth. Ori is carrying another armful of straw while Bofur and Bombur are moving the first barrel of explosives over the uneven ground. Nori is expertly directing their movements, careful to avoid detection from afar but oblivious to the new threat that is rapidly approaching from the south.

Dori's hands clench tightly around the shaft of his axe.

After a moment Thorin nods.

"What do you suggest?"

"Leave Azog to me." Gandalf does not flinch under Thorin's angry glare. "I know what this means to you, but we have to be practical. Join the others while there's still time. Together you can defeat Bolg, and I have a few tricks up my sleeve to deal with Azog. We must vanquish both, or we will fail."

"This is personal," Thorin grits out. "I'm staying. The others will join forces at the foot of the tower."

"I'm not leaving you here," Dwalin informs him matter-of-factly. Dori glares at them and opens his mouth for an angry retort.

"We cannot afford this," Gandalf interrupts him. "We need every warrior we have to take out Bolg, and I can deal with Azog on my own. He won't pass that bridge."

Dwalin has seen Thorin's mulish expression often enough to know it will take more than an angry wizard to sway him. He himself is not sure about the subject. Thorin's thirst for revenge, the wild desire to complete the task he failed to accomplish at Azanulbizar, would be comprehensible to any dwarf; yet their responsibility now goes so much further than revenge.

"Please, Thorin." Bilbo's voice is very quiet. "You must protect them. I don't know much about duty and honour, or whatever dwarves think of it... but they're our friends. I'm afraid for them."

Thorin stares at him, but to Dwalin's surprise he does not utter a sharp reply. A long moment passes. Eventually Thorin nods stiffly.

"They followed me all this way," he admits, and when his eyes meet Dwalin's it is clear that they both remember the discussion they had the previous night. "It is not right to abandon them now. Have it your way, Gandalf, but do make sure you finish him. I won't believe it until I've seen the body." He motions for them to move along but hesitates for a moment. "Have you seen my nephews?"

"Safe, as yet," Gandalf returns, "though deeply troubled by the new developments. You'd better hurry before Kíli annoys that elven captain into abandoning her post."

Thorin gives him a grim smile. "Understood. Bilbo, see that you stay out of trouble. And good luck to you both."

 

The shattering noise of explosions rings through the air while they are still rushing towards the tower to meet their companions. " _Hurry!_ " Thorin roars to spur them on, even though they are already running as fast as their battle gear allows. The entire base of the watchtower is burning brightly and parts of the building are beginning to crash down in a terrible inferno. In front of it they can see their friends gathering up their armour and running towards them; the plan had been for them to join Thorin's group in their fight, but Dwalin can see now that they would have failed, for Glóin shouts and gestures behind them at a small group of mounted orcs moving swiftly up the road they meant to take.

So the dance begins.

 

Dwalin is strangely calm. There is nothing left to do for him but to fight. This is something he is familiar with, hand-to-hand combat in a skirmish, one handful of warriors against another. There is no telling whether or not he has done enough to change fate, but he did what he could, and now the years and decades of waiting will finally come to an end.

The raven they sent to Dáin warned them of the approaching orc army. Perhaps it will make a difference that they are prepared now. Perhaps Thorin would have been slain by elven blades before their true enemies even appeared.

Perhaps he would have met his end in a final battle with Azog.

Perhaps Fíli and Kíli would have been at his side, shielding their fallen uncle with their own bodies until they, too, were cut down.

Perhaps Balin would have been caught in the thick of the battle, with no way to escape when the black arrows came down upon him.

And perhaps it will not make a difference at all. But whatever it is, there is nothing he can do about it now.

It is a relief.

 

A terrible roar of fury sounds over the noise of battle and fire that surrounds them. The pale orc has fled onto the bridge with three of his soldiers just before a large part of the tower collapsed behind them, and now he has spotted the dwarves at the base of the burning ruins. " _Oakenshield_!" he screams, followed by a string of guttural sounds that must be the filthiest profanities the Dark Speech has to offer. Thorin retorts with a colourful obscenity in Khuzdul, and though neither of the opponents understands the other's words, their meaning is quite obvious. Azog clutches his mace and heads across the bridge, forced to take the detour because the burning building has become a death trap, but before he reaches the other side Gandalf steps onto the narrow path and blocks his way.

He looks very small as he stands alone before the pale orc and his cronies, armed with his staff and his sword, but protected by neither shield nor armour and much to slender to strike even one powerful blow against his huge and tough adversaries.

There is no time to watch what happens next. The orc named Bolg is fast approaching with his guards, his face twisted in fury. Thorin shouts a tactical command, and the others spread out to meet them.

"Du Bekâr!" Balin cries and throws himself into the fray, and Dwalin can feel the familiar battle-lust running through his veins. He moves swiftly to Thorin's side, so they can take the leader between them. The dwarves outnumber their enemies two to one, and although the orcs are tall and fierce, the odds are clearly in favour of Thorin's dwarrows. 

The orc named Bolg is taller and even more repulsive than most of his kind, with pieces of metal implanted in his skin that make for very effective armour, and he is carrying a deadly mace, but his left eye is blind. It takes no more than a gesture for Thorin and Dwalin to coordinate themselves. They begin to circle their enemy slowly, weapons raised in apprehension while the orc growls and follows their movements with a ferocious grin. For a moment the three of them appear to be locked in a deadly game of patience, each waiting for the other's mistake while the shouts and battle noises around them seem very far away.

 

Suddenly there is a flash of light behind them, the deafening thunder of another explosion and an agonized scream that is hardly audible over the noise.

It must be the scream that makes Bolg whip around towards the bridge, or rather, as Dwalin catches in a fleeting glance, the huge cloud of dust where the bridge used to be, and Thorin moves quick as lightning. His curved elven blade slips on Bolg's implanted armour, but Thorin ducks under the orc's arm and slips behind him just as his enemy turns back with a roar of rage.

Dwalin charges from the left side and lands a blow to Bolg's thigh that does a fair amount of damage, but not enough to seriously weaken their enemy. They have to hit the less protected parts, which gives them a disadvantage, and their best chance is to bring their enemy to the ground. Dwalin dodges the mace and strikes again.

The fight is swift and brutal, and though Thorin and Dwalin are experienced enough to make tactical use of their advantage, Bolg's superior size and strength make him a dangerous foe. His strikes are of deadly precision and utterly ruthless, and things get critical when the mace grazes Thorin's head and the king crumbles to the ground. Dwalin throws himself in front of his friend with a roar of fury, and he moves with enough force to drive the orc backwards but not so nimbly that he can avoid the ragged blade that pierces the chainmail on his left side. It is not a fatal wound but it throws him off balance, and for a second he is left gasping for air while his enemy grins and raises his mace.

Then the orc collapses with a gurgling sound and a throwing axe embedded in his throat.

Dwalin whips around to see Thorin getting to his feet. He looks rather satisfied despite the blood running down his face.

They exchange a grim nod and turn to join their friends, but it is hardly necessary. Only two of Bolg's guards are still fighting, and even as they watch Bifur takes out one of them with his spear. The other one turns to flee, and Thorin signals for his companions to let him go. He will spread the word that both leaders have fallen.

 

A strange calm settles over the group when the last of their opponents is gone. Nori is on the ground with his brothers hovering beside him, but before they can make an inventory of injuries taken they must make sure that another threat has passed. Dwalin is at Thorin's side when the king steps towards the chasm that lies beyond the shattered bridge. Bofur gets there first, being closest to it, and he gives it only one short glance before he turns away in disgust.

Thorin looks long and hard, as if he somehow expects the bloody corpses to reassemble themselves and return to haunt him like the pale orc did once before. Not now, though. Azog will never trouble them again.

 

The battle is not over but they have won this fight, a fight that can hardly be overestimated in terms of strategic importance and that confronted them with the fiercest and most dangerous foes they are likely to encounter this day. For the first time since the news of the orc attack reached them, Dwalin feels a wild hope rising in his chest. If they survived this, they have a good chance of surviving the rest. The battle is still raging below them but the coordinated attacks are clearly putting the hostile forces under pressure, and the orcs are likely to retreat when it becomes apparent that they are leaderless.

Nori is the only one of their companions who has received a serious injury. His left arm is broken in several places and he is about to pass out from the pain, so Óin does what little he can on the field before he sends his patient and his brothers off towards the healers' tent. There is a good chance they will reach it safely, and Dwalin will not consider any other possibility.

The rest of them sport cuts and bruises but are still capable of fighting. This, at least, is what he tells their healer in very clear terms when the latter tries to stem the blood flow from Dwalin's dagger wound. Óin grumbles some very descriptive curses, but he knows better than to keep Dwalin from Thorin's side in a situation such as this, so he relents. The blood loss is indeed making Dwalin feel slightly light-headed, but it is the last thing he would admit right now.

They all turn when Gandalf shouts and points towards the mountains, and there in the distance they can see a new host of winged creatures approaching through the winter sky. 

"The eagles!" Bilbo shouts excitedly. "Look, Thorin, the eagles are coming!"

And his keen hobbit eyes have not failed him. It is indeed the eagles that are charging towards them rapidly, their shrill cries ringing loudly over the battle noises, and Thorin's face lights up in a broad smile.

"Indeed, Mr. Baggins," he says, far too softly for Bilbo to hear him. "We are not alone. Let us join the others! _Du Bekâr_!"

 

The dwarven battle cry is taken up by the others, and together they charge down the hill and towards the battlefield. They blend effortlessly with a group of men and dwarves who are engaged in a fierce attack, and Dwalin lets the rage of the fight overtake him at last. All the desperate fury that has been burning within him for years and decades is unleashed upon his enemies, and he fights without a rational thought, moving with deadly precision and bone-shattering force. There is no fear in him now, only the wild joy that comes with the thrill of fighting and the imminent promise of success. The hostile troops are scattering before their eyes, terrorized by the combined forces of dwarves and elves, men and eagles, and the moment of victory is near, so near.

 

He cannot tell exactly how it happens. One moment he and Thorin are fighting, moving back to back in a graceful dance practiced a thousand times over, both cutting into the ranks of their enemies with each swift movement of their blades. Then, suddenly, Thorin stumbles against him and nearly throws him off balance. Dwalin catches himself while his friend slides to the ground with the shaft of a black arrow protruding from his chest.

There is no breath in him for a moment, no movement and no sound, and he can only watch helplessly as his friend coughs up blood that runs down his face, and then Thorin's body goes limp and his eyes flutter shut. He thinks he might have screamed, afterwards, but he is not quite sure and it does not matter.

_Perhaps,_ Thorin's voice echoes in his head, _there is just no running from fate._

He carries on fighting because it's the only thing he remembers how to do, even though his body begins to falter from blood loss, and he challenges death to take him now, take both of them if it needs be, for no-one will get to his fallen friend while he is still standing. Balin pushes through to stand at his side but he hardly notices, for there is nothing beside the screaming of his mind and the cold certainty of death.

The blow hits him from behind, from where Thorin was standing to protect his back but isn't anymore. It crushes his bones and throws him to the ground, and a red wave of pain overtakes his senses. There is a scream and a flurry of movement, and he thinks he can see a graceful figure standing over him, too tall for a dwarf and with blazing red hair, and behind it two familiar faces.

They have no business being here. 

But there is no time left to tell them.

 

(-End of part V -)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um... about that cliffhanger. *shifty eyes*
> 
> I wish I could promise to resolve it really fast, but I'm caught in the middle of a hundred work-related deadlines right now and I don't want to rush it. I've already written a large chunk of the next chapter, though, and I do promise to work as fast and thorough as I can.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure where it originated, but I'm borrowing the headcanon that dwarven eyes glow in the dark. It makes sense and I love the idea.
> 
> And now, on to the last chapter.

On the other side of the darkness lies agony.

He is vaguely aware that he has been wounded before, that he can deal with pain and is supposed to be stoic in the face of injury. Yet no amount of prior experience could have prepared him for the debilitating pain that engulfs him as soon as his consciousness begins to emerge from the black depths that swallowed him after his fall. He cannot tell where he is, or why he is there, and he is not sure if the screaming in his ears comes from his own voice or not. For a while there does not exist a world outside of this pain; later, though he cannot tell how much later because all sense of time has left him, there are moments when he is dimly aware of a presence nearby, someone who speaks and touches him, which is sort of surprising as he was not sure he still possessed a body.

_always been a fighter he won't give up like that_

The voice means safety and home. It would be a good voice but it is laced with fear and sounds wrong.

_will make it surely won't they_

Another voice, one that makes him think of brown curls and bare feet and a cozy homestead that feels right because it is beneath the ground, but not quite right as it is covered by earth, not stone.

There is nothing beside the pain for an eternity, but just when he thinks it cannot get worse his broken body begins to shake with nausea and waves of heat that still make his teeth chatter and his bones freeze. He wants it to end.

_He's running a fever,_ he hears the first voice say, and though it comes from a great distance he realizes that it sounds panicked. _We're losing him too. Óin!_

And once again there is only darkness.

 

A light breeze plays softly in Thorin's hair. Dwalin watches it for a while before he lets his gaze roam across their surroundings, casually, as he has seen them before and it never occurs to him that they should be anywhere else. They are standing on a hilltop near their old home in the Blue Mountains, one that they have often used as a resting place during their trade journeys, and his friend is leaning against a large grey boulder and looking pensively towards the rolling hills of the west.

"Do you know," he remarks idly, "I should like to see the sea, one day."

Dwalin looks at him in surprise. "That is a strange wish," he returns, but the strangest thing is that Thorin's words seem to resonate somewhere in his mind, and the idea does not seem as absurd as it should.

"Is that so?"

Thorin's gaze lingers on the far horizon, and his bright blue eyes are filled with yearning and hope. Dwalin has seen this expression on him before, though he cannot remember where or when. 

"We could go now," Thorin says wistfully. "Why should we not? They speak of ancient halls that await those that have traveled beyond, a world full of wonder and glory. Have you not heard those tales, Dwalin? Do you not wish to see it with your own eyes?"

"Aye." Dwalin pauses and narrows his eyes against the pale sun that sets over the far hills. The deep longing that fills Thorin's voice has taken hold of his own heart, and he wants nothing more that to walk ahead into a new adventure at the side of his dearest friend.

Yet he cannot shake the feeling that he forgot something important.

"It is early yet," he says, struggling to put his vague impressions into words. "Too early, perhaps. There are… things we should see to, before we go."

"Others can see to them." Thorin's eyes are shining brightly as he turns towards Dwalin. He looks young and carefree and happier than Dwalin has seen him in a long time, though when he thinks about it he is not sure how he knows this because he has no clear memories of the past.

"They say," Thorin continues dreamily, "that the grey rain curtain of the world will roll back, and all will turn to silver glass. And then we shall see…" He breaks off and smiles.

Dwalin feels the lure of his friend's words, the wild desire to cast off all doubts and walk down the road that stretches out before them. He cannot remember what lies behind them, nothing beyond a vague feeling of pain and sorrow. They do not have to return. They will be free at last, released from the bonds that held them for so long. All he has to do is to take Thorin's hand and follow his king into another adventure.

But he finds that he cannot.

There is unfinished business, he is sure, though he cannot lay his finger on what it might be. They have not done all they were supposed to do, and a dwarf is never satisfied with incomplete work. And then there are faces he cannot quite recall, the shadowy presence of others who seem to surround them, and desperate voices in the back of his mind that are pleading with him to stay behind.

Their urging is stronger than the call of the unknown land that promises them unimaginable wonders.

"I will not go," he declares heavily.

Thorin meets his eyes in surprise. The sudden hurt in his gaze almost makes Dwalin turn away, but he straightens his back.

"I am sorry," he says softly. "I would have followed you anywhere, my friend. But this, I cannot do. Not yet."

Thorin watches him in silence. The carefree smile has slipped from his king's face, replaced by a stony expression Dwalin finds himself unable to read.

Thorin truly wants to leave, he realizes. His friend is called forward by a powerful longing, and he wishes nothing more than to follow it. But more than that, Dwalin can sense in his heart that it would be best for Thorin take this path and not look back. He would be free of all his worries. He would never feel pain again. After a lifetime of grief and hardship he would finally be at peace.

Dwalin has heard it said that sometimes to love means to let go. The proverb is surely not of dwarven origin, but right in this moment when he understands that their roads must part here, he knows it is true.

He takes Thorin's hand and kisses it.

"Forgive me," he tries, and when his friend remains stubbornly silent, he adds, "I will find you one day. I promise. Then we shall see the wonders you spoke of, and I will never part from you again."

His heart clenches in his chest, and it is only with great effort that he can bring himself to turn away. "I am sorry," he mutters in one last, desperate attempt to appease his beloved friend before they must part. "Fare well, âzyungâl. May the blessing of our Maker remain with you."

He falters for only one moment, a wordless plea for the reply that does not come. Then he shoulders his pack and begins to walk down the long road that leads back towards their home.

 

His awareness returns slowly. His minds arranges fragments of sensation into a coherent picture, like the wooden puzzle his father gave him when he was young, the one that looked like a bear, and the wood was polished from frequent use but he cannot remember where he put it. But there is pain in his back that demands his attention, and his legs feel strangely numb. He is bedded on a comfortable mattress and someone is holding his hand, the air smells of herbs and blood and Óin's medical pouch, and the pain is very bad.

Thorin is gone.

He does not remember why he is so certain of it, but he knows without being told, and his body is hit by a wave of nausea. Strong hands hold his head and stroke his hair while he retches without actually being sick, then brush away the wetness that covers his cheek and gently ease him back to his pillow.

"Steady now, nadadith," says Balin. "You're safe."

He blinks and tries to find his voice. It is hoarse, as though he hasn't used it in a while.

"What happened?" he rasps.

"The battle is over." Now that his vision clears, he can see that Balin looks pale and tired. He smiles, but his eyes are sad. "We won."

Dwalin averts his gaze. The ceiling is made of black stone, he notes. There was enough time to move the wounded into the mountain.

"Thorin," he whispers, and it is not a question because he already knows the answer. But Balin's voice does not falter.

"He gave us a real fright," he says."You both did. But Óin says he'll pull through."

He smiles and points with his head, and when Dwalin looks he sees a heap of furs and blankets on the bed beside him, and, nearly buried beyond them, a dark head with a blood-stained bandage. Fíli is sitting beside the bed and running a steady hand through Thorin's long black hair.

Dwalin cannot believe his own eyes. 

"Kíli?" he inquires tentatively, and Balin chuckles. 

"Nursing a mangled leg, but still hoping he'll be able to keep it. All of our companions are alive, Dwalin. Bofur lost an eye, Glóin nearly bled out and Nori's arm will remain stiff. But we all survived." His face darkens. "Many others weren't so lucky."

Dwalin sinks into his pillow and closes his eyes. "What about Dáin?"

"Taking charge of politics while Thorin is out. He's making quite an impression, I dare say. Bard seems to like him." Balin smiles. "They're doing a good job, considering the circumstances. We're short on food and medical supplies, but Thranduil has already sent for help. I have no idea what possessed him." A shadow passes over Balin's face, and he rubs his temple as he always does when he is suffering from a severe headache. "All who can still walk are clearing the battlefield. The orc corpses are burned, the others..." He shrugs. "There are so many. We are lucky it's freezing outside. It gives us more time to bury them."

It was a terrible slaughter, Dwalin recalls as the memory begins to return to him. So many bodies, so much blood and violence and death, screams and pain and the smell of fire, and then he remembers Fíli and Kíli and Balin dead on the ground and Thorin's lifeless body on a cot and his thoughts come to a sudden halt.

They are _alive_. Balin is holding his hand. Fíli is sitting right beside them, Thorin is still breathing, Kíli may lose a leg, just a leg and not his life, and the terrible visions that haunted him for decades show a future that will never happen.

The wave of relief is overwhelming. 

There will be a time to grieve the dead. Right now all he can think of are those who survived, the horrifying possibilities that did not come to pass. He was given this one chance to change the fate of his loved ones, those who are his family as much as they were Víli's, and he is just beginning to understands that, by the grace of Mahal and with the support of his friends, he succeeded.

It is over.

_It is over._

Balin smiles and runs a hand over his forehead.

"We're safe for now, it seems," his brother tells him, practical as ever. "Gandalf says the orcs won't return for some time. We'll have to remain watchful, though."

"But now we have an army inside the mountain," Fíli interjects with a wan smile towards Dwalin. "And allies on the outside. They'll come for us one day, but we'll be ready." 

Dwalin smiles back at him, too happy to see him alive to care overmuch about his words. The lad looks as if he has not slept in days, with dark circles under his eyes and dirt on his cheek and one of his moustache braids unraveled. But the blood in his matted blonde hair is not his own, and his eyes are bright and twinkling in a way that reminds Dwalin very powerfully of Víli.

"By the way," Fíli adds with a dry chuckle, "right now my brother is making doe eyes at the elf lady who saved your life. If you think you can stand to receive her, I'll tell her to drop by before she returns to the camp."

"Guess I'll have to," Dwalin mutters wearily, but in truth he is in no shape to deal with elves and similar nuisances. He drifts back into the haze of pain before long, but the feeling of victory remains with him and makes it easier to bear.

 

Thorin wakes several hours later, pale and fragile but already scowling impressively when Óin force-feeds him a particularly unsavory medicine. It is the same substance that made Dwalin too sluggish to talk, but it also lessened the pain, and so he satisfies himself with simply watching his friend while he lets reality sink in. Thorin is alive and here with him. They will rebuild Erebor together with Balin by their side, and Fíli and Kíli will finally see what their heritage is all about. They are still sitting on a pile of ruins, but they can move on from here, they can build it anew, and their dreams of a brighter future can finally come to pass.

A future that will never again be tainted by inescapable doom and nightmares of blood and death. A future in which he will think of Víli and smile, hoping that his old friend is watching them from the Halls of the Maker.

 

The next few days pass in a blur. Sometimes there are others around when he awakens and sometimes not. He cannot tell whether or not it has something to do with the time of day; there is a constant dim light in their chamber, except when someone lights the torches. Bilbo comes into his vision more than once, looking gaunt and shaken but smiling bravely. Balin seem to be around whenever he is not needed elsewhere, and he reports that all of their companions have come to see them, but Dwalin remembers only Dori's and Ori's visit aside from Óin's frequent presence. He also recalls a very awkward visit from Tauriel, the red-headed elf woman to whom he apparently owes his life. He was honourable enough to voice his thanks when they were due. She seemed surprised and excused herself quickly, which suited them both equally well.

Once he awakens to a room that is empty save for the bed at his side, but when he turns his head, he sees the faint shimmer of dwarven eyes in the half-light. Thorin is looking at him intently, and Dwalin remembers that they haven't spoken to each other since the battle. Thorin has not spoken at all, as far as he can recall, which does not say much.

He attempts to smile.

"I thought you were dead," he says, knowing that Thorin will understand him even if his words are blurred by sleep and pain and Óin's soothing herbs. Thorin does not smile back.

"I promised to try," he wheezes, "not to leave you behind." It sounds like every word is causing him pain, which probably means that his lungs are damaged. It is a grave injury, one that will take a long time to heal, if it ever fully does. But Thorin is a tough dwarrow, and he will survive this. He will be well again. He will take his rightful place as King Under the Mountain.

Dwalin shifts on his lair, ignores the spike of pain that shoots through his back, and reaches out with his hand.

Thorin watches him for a long moment. Dwalin finds it very difficult to read his expression, though he gets the vague feeling that he has seen it before. For a moment he thinks he can remember a hilltop in the Blue Mountains and a strange longing in his heart and the horrible feeling of loss, but the memory fades before he can grasp it. Then his friend mirrors his gesture and catches Dwalin's fingers with his own.

They are barely touching, the small space between their beds a distance that can hardly be bridged, but the warmth of Thorin's broad, solid fingers is comforting. He runs a gentle thumb over his friend's knuckles, and Thorin smiles.

 

As time passes his lucid periods become longer and the pain recedes to an intense but dull background ache. Eventually Óin tells him in his usual gruff bedside manner that he will need a crutch for the rest of his life.

To his own surprise the knowledge does not shake him as he thought it would. It does not even come entirely without warning. His legs are weak and feel useless, and in the back of his mind there had been the growing fear that would never be able to stand on his own two feet again. But dwarven bones are thick and tough, and the horrible blow that nearly shattered his spine could not quite break it after all.

It will be a long road to recovery, Balin tells him later, and some things he will have to give up for good. There will be time to deal with it later. Right now it does not seem too great a price for his success, and now that he has achieved the impossible and bent fate to his own will, perhaps he can do it again. Perhaps he'll get off with a limp. It will not be enough for battle, but it might suffice for the training grounds. Erebor will have an army again, and they will need instructors to train the new recruits. He is better qualified than most.

Now that he allows himself to hope again, anything seems possible.

 

The winter is cold and bitter. Legions of survivors from Laketown are dwelling in make-shift huts at the foot of the mountain, while Dáin and Bard do their best to keep the roads to Mirkwood and the Iron Hills clear so the supplies of food and medication do not run dry. Thranduil returned to Mirkwood but left a group of delegates behind. They are led by the arrogant blonde named Legolas who turned out to be Thranduil's son, which explains his attitude, although both he and Thorin are civil enough during the one time Legolas pays his respects at the king's sickbed. Dwalin can only guess that their tentative truce has something to do with the return of Orcrist, but he does not ask.

Much like the human survivors the elves refuse to seek shelter in the Mountain, so Dáin's soldiers do their best to help keep the snow out and their fires going in the little settlement outside.

"You have to see it their way," Bilbo argues one evening when most of the Company are assembled in the spacious chamber that has become Thorin's and Dwalin's temporary home. Neither of them is capable of walking, so their companions have made it a habit to visit them after they have finished their daily labour, sometimes alone and sometimes in groups. One of them will light a fire in the small grate in the corner that has been cleared and repaired, and they will talk of the advancements made in repairs, of the well-being of their allies, or the news that have started to trickle in from other corners of the world. Sometimes they will bring musical instruments and food, and there is a comfortable array of chairs and furs around a table that makes the room a lot more comfortable.

Right now Bilbo is perched on a low stool beside Thorin's bed and frowns in a way that always indicates an imminent lecture. He reaches for his pipe before he remembers that smoking is strictly forbidden in Thorin's presence and looks slightly frustrated.

"They are creatures of air and light. They cannot live underground. You must admit that this..." he gestures at the stone walls, then meets Thorin's blank expression and sighs. "While it is... beautiful and... very impressive, it... might come across as slightly intimidating to someone who is not used to living underground?"

"You are doing fine, I see," Thorin huffs. The dwarf king is not particularly keen on having a bunch of men and elves swarming his halls, but at the same time righteously indignant about the fact that they did not even ask. 

"My home is underground too." Bilbo sighs. "Even if it is not the same, and I do miss Bag End. And besides..." He gives Thorin one of his quick, quirky smiles that do not quite reach his eyes. "Someone has to look out for your bunch, and that's the truth of it. Who knows what you'd be up to without me?"

He sounds cheerful, but Dwalin does not miss Bofur's flinch. Bilbo refused to return to the Shire with Gandalf immediately after the battle, claiming that springtime would make for easier travel, but they all know that he will leave eventually. It will be a painful parting.

"At least we can find our way in the dark," the miner supplies good-naturedly. "Aye, I can see how that'd be a problem for strange folk. All these staircases and balustrades, and some of them broken, too. I'd be worried for Kíli if I thought it would do an ounce of good."

Kíli throws a loaf of bread in Bofur's general direction and hits Thorin in the face instead. The tension dissolves in a round of laughter, and even Thorin's lips twitch as he growls a mild insult toward his nephew. In truth they are all too glad to see the young dwarf recover. The healers were able to save his knee but not his foot, and while he has already started bragging about his plans to craft an iron limb that matches Dáin's, the truth is that he is still in pain and does not take the loss lightly. Bofur is of great help, for his experience and natural cheerfulness enable him to wear his newly acquired eye-patch with remarkable composure, and Kíli is getting better by the day.

Dwalin smiles along with the others, but then he meets Bilbo's eyes and sobers instantly. Bilbo looks at him with a slight frown, and an unspoken question hangs in the air between them, one they cannot discuss because they are never alone. Dwalin shrugs and closes his eyes. A hundred times he has contemplated telling Thorin about the Arkenstone, but so far he always decided against it. It is not cowardice but caution, as for the first time in over a hundred years, he has no idea how Thorin will react. He is not one to shrink from a row, and he is prepared to face his king's wrath where he deserves it, but the fact is that they cannot yet be sure that Thorin's obsession will not return. No one has discussed the treasure yet, with the exception of one valuable piece of jewelry Thranduil claimed in return for the princes' protection. It is a topic Dwalin cares not to dwell on, not during their recovery and preferably not afterwards, although he knows it cannot be avoided forever. 

 

In the end the decision is taken from him. It happens on the same morning shortly after Midwinter when he takes his first steps in their chamber, supported by Balin and cursing steadily under his breath. Thorin is sitting in an armchair near the fire, wearing a beautiful dressing gown that used to belong to his father and watching Dwalin's progress with a critical eye. The domestic scene is disturbed by Fíli, who bursts into the room without knocking, gasps for breath and leans against the wall.

"Uncle Thorin!"

Thorin is already on his feet, even if he does not stand quite as firmly as he used to.

"What happened?"

"The Arkenstone!" Fíli grips Thorin's arm to drag him along. "Above the throne. Óin says it's the real one, and it is in its old place like it was never missing."

Thorin stares at him in complete and utter disbelief.

"Come," Fíli urges and slings an arm around his waist, and it is all the king needs to lean on his nephew and stumble out of the room in a hurry.

Balin gives Dwalin a meaningful look before the brothers follow them.

It is a long way to the throne room, or so it appears to Dwalin, and the fact is endlessly frustrating. All their companions and Dáin are already assembled when they arrive. Thorin is leaning heavily on Fíli, looking dazed but not shouting, which is a relief. Glóin and Dori are engaged in a heated discussion. Óin is a perfect picture of serenity. Kíli and Bofur are talking under their breaths, while Bifur leans against a pillar and fails to hide his amusement.

Bilbo stands beside Bombur, wide-eyed and innocent and staring at the glittering stone as though he had never before seen such a wonder. 

Balin comes to a halt at a distance.

"I had hoped to see it again," he says wonderingly, "but it is another thing entirely to have it before me. Do you remember it, Dwalin?"

"Aye," he returns curtly, for how could he not, even though he was a young lad at the time. The Arkenstone was more than a beautiful jewel; it was a divine gift, and every dwarfling of Erebor had known its significance.

Balin shoots him a knowing look.

"Let us hope that Thorin begins his reign with a wise decision," he says slowly. "Whoever did this clearly meant well for him. He should take it as the gift that it is."

Dwalin takes a deep breath, but his brother shakes his head.

"Hush. Not now. This was a brilliant move, and I would ask you not to spoil it."

 

Thorin does not get angry, which bodes well for his mental state.

"I wonder how long they had it," he tells Dwalin later that day when they are alone in their room. "I confess that I was not in the most stable state of mind for some time before the battle. Do you think I scared some of our companions? Or was this truly an act of thievery? I do not like to think it was."

"Neither do I." Dwalin purposefully ignores the first part of the question, and Thorin gives him a sharp look.

"I won't doubt my friends again," he says, "though it hurts to know they thought so little of me. But perhaps they were right."

He leans back into his pillow and closes his eyes.

"Do you think they were right, Dwalin?"

For a moment Dwalin wonders wildly if this means his friend has looked through his façade, because Thorin knows him too well and Dwalin is not a good actor, but then he realizes that this was a genuine question. Thorin truly wants to know, and he deserves an honest answer.

"To think little of you?" he repeats. "No. But you do not know they did. To be cautious?" He shrugs. "I cannot tell. But I think they were right to return it now. It shows that you have the trust of your companions, Thorin, and I can think of none who deserves it more."

"We both remember what happened to my grandfather, Dwalin," Thorin reminds him, and there is a dull tone in his voice Dwalin does not like. "What if it happens again?"

"Then we will be with you. We can face all of this together, Thorin. We will be there for you if you need us."

"We will catch you if you fall." 

They both look around to see Balin leaning in the doorway. He looks exhausted but smiles in a way that has made Dwalin feel safe ever since he was little.

"I remember your grandfather, Thorin. He was a great dwarf. But he had no idea of the challenge he was facing, he refused to consider that something might be wrong with him. You are aware of the danger, and thus we can help you." He hesitates. "In fact, what happened today shows you how far your friends are willing to go for you, even at a great personal risk."

Thorin is silent for a moment. He looks from Balin to Dwalin, and Dwalin can see the exact moment when he comes to a realization. His face falls, and Dwalin struggles to keep his expression neutral. 

"I see," Thorin says slowly. "If that is so, I will consider myself blessed."

 

They never discuss the details. Dwalin can tell that his friend is hurt by yet another well-kept secret, but he also understands why it had to be done. For a while he becomes silent and ill-tempered, trying but failing to hide his own misery that is born from self-doubt and guilt, and Dwalin's patience is suffering severely. But just as the hardships of winter begin to lessen as the weeks pass, as Dwalin's ability to walk improves steadily and Erebor starts look less like a tomb and more like a wonder of dwarvish architecture, their king's spirits are returning. Dwarves are a practical folk, and they have endured too much to let their victory be soured by deeds that cannot be undone and fears that may be entirely unfounded.

The ice on the River Running has almost melted away when Thorin officially takes over his rule as King Under The Mountain. The healers have informed them that his health will never be as robust as it used to be, which means that long travels and strenuous battle training are a thing of the past, but he is well enough to relieve Dáin of his duties as interim regent and finally let his cousin return home. Many of his soldiers remain behind to make a new home in Erebor, but those who depart are honoured with the first great feast that Erebor has seen in fourteen decades. 

For the first time in over a hundred years the Great Banquet Hall is lightened by hundreds of torches, warmed by roaring fires and filled with the scent of roasted game. There are no banners and decorations, and food and ale do not run quite as plentiful as they used to do in the olden days, but the air is filled with voices and laughter and songs that were almost forgotten. A group of dwarves from the Iron Hills have started a traditional dance in the middle in the hall right in front of Bard and his companions, and the menfolk are laughing and singing along with them. Legolas is watching the spectacle with a strangely fascinated expression. The elves were invited purely as a sign of political goodwill and most of them look as uncomfortable as could be expected during an inherently dwarvish celebration, but Tauriel is smiling. She truly seems to be enjoying herself, which is a strange thought after all those years of bitterness and mutual distrust.

Balin reclines in his seat at Dwalin's side.

"It is almost as it used to be," he says thoughtfully, and there is a strange sadness in his voice.

Dwalin gives him a sharp look. He knows that Balin is still not quite comfortable in their new home. Not for the first time he wonders what memories weigh on his brother's heart, and whether it is the good or the bad that haunt him most.

"It is all we could have wished for," he returns. "This is just the beginning. Wait until the caravans arrive from the Ered Luin!"

"Indeed," Balin admits, though he does not sound quite convinced. "We have achieved so much. Right now anything seems possible." He turns his mug of ale in his hands and does not meet Dwalin's eyes. "These days, one could almost wonder if it isn't possible to reclaim Khâzad-Dum as well."

Dwalin nearly drops the juicy piece of meat he has just taken from one of the passing plates. A cold feeling settles in his gut, a slow, deep, irrational horror that has nothing to do with Azanulbizar. He thinks of Víli and of a blood-soaked white beard and how no one ever said that they would all die together. 

Balin must not go to Khâzad-Dum. Balin must _never_ go to Khâzad-Dum.

"Nonsense," Thorin scoffs, completely oblivious to Dwalin's reaction. "This is our task, Balin. This is our legacy." He gestures across the hall where a large crowd is beginning to gather around Dáin and Bard, who are about to engage in a drinking contest. Bilbo exchanges a few words with Bofur before he approaches Thorin's table with a grin on his face and a parchment in his hand. How very much like him, Dwalin thinks, to do even such a thing as betting the proper way. Thorin smirks and leans back in his chair.

"This is going to be fun," he declares. "No, Balin, I need you here. What would I do without my trusted advisor?"

Balin sighs, but then his features relax into a slow smile.

"Aye, you're right. It was just a fancy."

Dwalin exhales slowly. "There's enough work here anyway," he says gruffly. "More than enough for a lifetime or two."

"That's true." Thorin smiles, and for the first time in a long while Dwalin thinks that he looks truly happy. "And we will come to that. But not today. Today we celebrate!"

 

**Epilogue**

Bilbo leaves on a sunny spring morning shortly after breakfast.

All dwarves of Thorin's company have come outside to say goodbye and walk with him a few miles in fond remembrance of the six months they spent together on the road. The three Broadbeams are mounted on shaggy ponies and clad in their old travelling gear, for they will accompany their hobbit to the Shire before returning to the Ered Luin for the next winter. They say that they wish to give a proper goodbye to those of their kinsmen who choose to remain behind when the caravans for Erebor depart. The truth is that none of them would let this hobbit travel without protection, and he and Bofur are known to be the dearest of friends.

Bilbo refused to accept a generous reward in return for his services and unexpected loyalty. He insists that gold and treasure would only add to the dangers of the road and be of little use in the Shire, so his companions created various tokens of friendship for him to keep their memory alive in his heart. Wrapped in the tight bundles behind his saddle he carries a golden pen from Balin and Ori's beautiful book of illustrations, a practical treatise on medical weeds from Óin, Glóin's decorated leather pouch and several pieces of his own silverware, skilfully enhanced with inlays of gold and emerald, from Nori. Dori extended his practical care to Bilbo's well-being and gifted him with a knitted woolen scarf, Fíli and Kíli braided two beads into his hair that mark him as a dwarf friend, and a slender hunting knife of Thorin's making is fastened to his belt next to the pouch that contains Dwalin's pipe.

They smoked together more than once, but Dwalin hopes that his gift will remind Bilbo of the one night before the battle, and of his wise words that meant so much to a friend in despair.

 

They pause on a small outlook halfway towards Dale, and Bilbo slides off his pony to embrace each of his friends in turn. He looks cheerful and determined, but when Dwalin presses the slender little fellow to his chest he can see that the hobbit is blinking back tears.

"I must say that this is not what I expected from this journey when I signed the treaty in Bag-End," he informs them with a brave smile. "I should have known better, shouldn't I, with the way you introduced yourself. You must teach your folk to mind their manners, Thorin, or mark my words, they _will_ cause a scene at every official dinner."

"Only among elves," Thorin returns unperturbed.

"We are lucky if Lord Elrond allows us to stay at Rivendell on our way back." Bilbo grins ruefully. Bofur and Bombur exchange an amused glance, while Bifur looks entirely unconcerned. 

Thorin is the last to embrace Bilbo. He holds him tightly for a moment, then he puts his hand on the hobbit's shoulders and smiles at him.

"Farewell, Master Burglar. Words cannot express how much we owe to you. You know that you will always be an honoured guest in Erebor, and I dearly hope that your path will lead you back one day."

"As do I," Bilbo returns earnestly, "though not soon, I dare say. I will be glad to see the Shire again. Surely they will have brought the harvest in when I return, but the apples will be ripe and the sunflowers will bloom in the garden of Bag-End. I long to sit on the bench by the door and watch the clouds go by for a while."

Dwalin watches his eyes light up when he speaks of his home, and he thinks that they, of all people, can understand how their friend feels.

Thorin lets go of Bilbo, and the hobbit climbs into the saddle again.

"Goodbye to you all!" he calls as he turns his pony. "You are welcome in Bag-End any time! You'll always find warm fire and a full pantry. And you don't have to knock!"

His dwarven companions are laughing and waving, and all four of them urge their mounts into a slow trot.

Dwalin leans on his crutch and keeps watching them for a long while until they disappear behind a hilltop. He hopes that they will be safe on the road. The chances are good, for now they have allies who will help rather than hinder them. Gandalf promised to make sure that Bilbo's home will be in a good state when he returns, so they can safely assume that their friend will happily return to his books and his armchair and his garden, to the idyllic land in the West that he has always carried in his heart. 

Dwalin and Thorin will never see the Shire again. Even though their recovery makes good progress, neither of them will ever be able to endure six months of harsh living on the road. All they can hope for is that maybe one day an adventurous hobbit will find his way back to the Lonely Mountain.

 

Their new life is here, Dwalin reflects as he watches the bustle of life in Dale from afar. Dwarves and men have been working together for weeks to replace the burned ruins with solid new buildings. There is still so much to achieve, and the fact that they are given the chance is a wonder that few people will ever know about.

Someone calls his name and Dwalin realizes that his companions have already turned to go, all except Thorin who steps beside him now and links their arms so that they can support each other on the way back. 

"We have to improve the roads as soon as possible," his friend muses as they make their way along the narrow path. "The trade routes will be of prime importance once Dale and Esgaroth are rebuilt. Remind me to discuss the matter with Bard."

"Aye," Dwalin agrees pleasantly, although in this particular moment he prefers to enjoy the glorious sight of the Lonely Mountain towering in front of a pale blue sky. There is birdsong in the air, for the dragon is gone and his shadow was lifted from the land, and the slopes beside the road are covered in bright flowers that would surely make a hobbit's heart soar. Somewhere in front of them Fíli is laughing loudly, and Dwalin smiles.

For the first time in a hundred years, spring is returning to Erebor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It truly feels very strange to finish this story. Thanks to everybody who stayed with me, and once again to my brilliant beta without whom I'd probably have lacked the courage to write something as long as this.
> 
> I may come back to this verse one day, but this particular story arc is definitely closed. It makes me happy... and maybe just a little sad. :)

**Author's Note:**

> According to the Khuzdul dictionary be The Dwarrow scholar, _nadadith_ means "brother that is young" and _âzyungâl_ means "lover".
> 
> Also, I'm still a slow writer. The story is plotted out but writing takes more time than I have at present *glares at RL issues*, so it'll be a few weeks in between updates.


End file.
